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THE SILKEN SCARF 


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THE 

SILKEN SCARF 


BY 


L. C. HOBART 

II 



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NEW YORK 

E. P. DUTTON & COMPANY 

681 FIFTH AVENUE 

2. 





Copyright, 1923 

BY E. P. DUTTON & COMPANY 


/ 




Printed in tbe United States 


of America. 


/ 


AUG 30 1923 


V 



I 




TO 

F. G. H. 


THE SILKEN SCARF 


PROLOGUE 

The sea was unbelievably brilliant. The sky 
of a blue, almost crude. Milk-white flat-roofed 
houses, framed in the gaudy green of outer 
shutters, met the eye on every side. The effect 
was dazzling. Malta basked in a sunshine 
which was hot even for March. 

A skiff threaded its way through the war¬ 
ships lying at anchor in Bighi Bay. In the 
shimmering heat the breath of the dhizo boy 
came panting. He emitted an odour of garlic. 
The two men lounging in the stern of the boat 
were thankful when the skiff reached the land¬ 
ing-stage and released them from the nauseat¬ 
ing smell. They jumped hastily on shore and 
turning into the Strada Rimini began to climb 
the tortuous steps that led to the fashionable 
Strada Reale. 

Colour flashed from every nook and cranny 
—the vivid colour of the South. It sprang from 
the eyes and cheeks, from the voices and 
laughter of men and children, from their gay 

scarves and jackets, from the fruit which the 

l 


2 


THE SILKEN SCARF 


vendors had piled high at each point where 
some slit of lane converged into the narrow 
street of steps. From great heaps of pome¬ 
granates juice dripped on to the blinding white 
of the uneven paving. Sliced pumpkins spread 
the red and gold of their flaming hearts. There 
were little acid cumquots of green and luscious 
yellow. Here a man fanned the flame in his 
charcoal stove, there a niche in an old stone 
wall showed the plaster figure of some saint 
whose gaudy tints long centuries of wind and 
sun had succeeded in no more than mellowing. 
Women closely wrapped in faldettas slipped 
to and fro. Into their faces too the vivid 
colour had crept, and one felt that it had 
ripened their hearts to passion. Thudding 
softly down the steps, all impatient for milking 
time, came a herd of goats. As they passed, 
white was thickly splashed with white. The 
heat was intense, the all-pervading smell of 
garlic overpowering. 

i 6 By Jove, it’s the limit! ’ 9 By the Church of 
St. Maria, which stands on the right of the 
street as you mount to the Strada Reale, 
O’Donoghue pulled up and fanned himself 
vigorously with his hat. “Come along in here 
for a minute, Fenwick, out of this awful stink!” 
He elbowed his companion towards the flight 
of steps that leads to the porch, lying just now 
in shadow. 


THE SILKEN SCARF 


3 



Fenwick hesitated. The cool of the church 
was inviting, but he had an appointment at four 
with Carlotta Vasari. Much hinged upon this 
meeting. There were certain things he had to 
ask of Carlotta. In the quiet of his orange 
groves at St. Antonio he was offering her an 
opportunity to refute those hateful suspicions 
which for months had made his life intolerable. 

And if she refuted them! His heart throbbed 
in anticipation. What abasement on his part 
would be too great for having doubted her? 
How find an atonement great enough to offer? 
His pulses quickened with the realisation of 
what life might mean to him again could his 
suspicions be disproved and this load lifted 
from his heart. And then a fierce anger against 
himself seized him. How had he dared to 
doubt? What proof had he? None! None! 
Triumphantly he emphasised his secret denial. 
It was just a question of health. He had spent 
too many hot seasons abroad—his doctor had 
told him so. He was out of sorts, had been so 
unknowingly for some time. And he had made 
Carlotta his scapegoat—Carlotta! His face 
was grim and taciturn as usual, but his heart 
was flooded with tenderness. How could he 

ever have doubted her? How could he-? 

In spite of the heat he shivered suddenly. As 
a spider’s web, each thread a nothing, a silken 
phantasy, so were his suspicions. But woven 



4 


THE SILKEN SCARF 


in a whole they were strong enough to mesh 
him. The web had swung out to entangle him. 
Once again he was caught in its poisonous 
intricacies, helpless in its grip. 

While Fenwick hesitated O’Donoghue 
watched him impatiently. Wlien he shivered 
he caught hold of his arm and pushed him up 
the steps. “ You ’ll be down with a go of fever 
if you are not careful,” he grumbled. 11 Even 
if you are in a blooming hurry, come in and 
cool off for a minute. Why the dickens do 
you worry so over business ?” It was a failing 
of which O’Donoghue himself could never be 
accused. 

He pushed aside the heavy padded door and 
together he and Fenwick entered the church. 
For a moment their eyes, dazzled by the bril¬ 
liant sunshine, saw only a vast black coolness. 
A faint smell of incense fringed it curiously to 
warmth. 

O’Donoghue sank on a chair by the nearest 
stone pillar and stretched his long legs. 

“Jolly cool in here, Fenwick,” he whispered, 
with a sigh of relief. Fenwick did not answer, 
and presently Dickie turned a lazy glance on 
him. “Jolly cool, eh what?” he repeated, still 
whispering. 

Evidently Fenwick did not hear, for he re¬ 
mained silent. He was staring intently before 
him. O’Donoghue surveyed him indolently, he 


THE SILKEN SCARF 


5 


was used to Fenwick’s fits of abstraction, but 
after a moment the intense absorption of 
Anthony’s gaze struck him, and his eyes wan¬ 
dered idly in the same direction. 

What he saw was not particularly interest¬ 
ing. At some .distance oft a woman was on her 
knees, that was all. For the rest, the vast 
church was empty. Dickie yawned. Nothing 
to make old Anthony stand staring like a 
graven image, nothing at all. He stretched his 
legs still farther and closed his eyes content¬ 
edly, while his thoughts hovered round his 
friend. Now that he came to consider it, 
Fenwick had been a bit off colour lately. And 
that shiver just now in the blazing sun—hipped, 
not a doubt of.it. Quinine, a good strong dose, 
was the thing for him, else he’d be down with 
that rotten fever. Perhaps it would be wise to 
get a move on; the church was cool, almost cold, 
after the heat of the sun-drenched streets. 
Reluctantly he opened his eyes and murmured, 
“Coming, Anthony!” 

There was no response. Fenwick’s eyes were 
still riveted on the figure of the kneeling 
woman. Rather puzzled, O’Donoghue peered 
more attentively at her through the dimness. 
Only just in time he repressed a whistle of sur¬ 
prise. The kneeling woman was Carlotta 
Vasari. Somehow she had not impressed him 
as the type of woman who drops into church at 


6 


THE SILKEN SCARF 


odd moments to say her prayers. What did 
Fenwick think about it? Turning, he shot an 
inquisitive glance at him. But the impassive 
profile gave no enlightenment. 

He had just determined to slip away quietly, 
leaving Anthony to wait for Carlotta, when he 
recollected that he too wanted to see Carlotta 
to make final arrangements with her about the 
picnic at St. Paul’s Island to-morrow. He 
resigned himself to a little more boredom and 
settled himself more comfortably on his chair. 
His thoughts still flickered round Fenwick. 
Odd that, close friends as they were, he never 
could guess what was passing behind that old 
wooden phiz of his. Between himself and the 
world he held an impenetrable reserve. Only 
once had Dickie seen it broken. That was 
w r hen Fenwick told him of his engagement to 
Carlotta. O’Donoghue stirred uneasily. The 
remembrance of that occasion invariably made 
him uncomfortable. He had not suspected 
Anthony capable of such emotion. It had dis¬ 
concerted him. As to the engagement itself 
O’Donoghue was of the private opinion that it 
was a mistake. Carlotta was all right, of course 
—quite all right. But she was a ‘‘foreigner.” 
Dickie was prejudiced against “foreigners” as 
a class. Individually they were his friends. 
The attitude was typical of the man. 


THE SILKEN SCARF 7 

His reflections were broken by the striking 
of a clock. 

Faintly the chimes penetrated from the outer 
world—the world of light and sunshine, the 
world where people went as usual about their 
business. And as the chimes ceased a change 
breathed through the atmosphere of the church, 
something intangible, and yet something that 
smote upon the heart with a living fear. Surely 
it was not altogether imagination that tragedy 
presaged itself? How explain the horror that 
was creeping through the dimness of nave and 
sanctuary, a dimness softening the crude col¬ 
ouring of the waxen figures that guarded the 
altars in the side chapels, a dimness pricked 
sharply here and there by the golden points of 
votive candles? Surely foreboding hovered 
around the lamp that brooded in red mystery 
above the high altar? 

As the clock struck Carlotta moved. For the 
first time, as though piercing the shadows, the 
head poised on the beautiful neck turned 
slowly, first to one side, then to the other. She 
did not find what she sought. Cautiously she 
peered across her shoulder. 

In the movement there was such stealth that 
O’Donoghue thought suddenly of a wild beast 
making ready to spring. He found himself on 
his feet. 


8 


THE SILKEN SCARF 

At the faint stir Fenwick turned sharply. 
His face was a mask. Peremptorily he 
motioned Dickie to the shadow. 

He obeyed—he dared not do otherwise—but 
he felt miserably uncomfortable and ashamed. 
Why the devil didn’t he and Fenwick show 
themselves in the open? It was rotten to be 
skulking as though they were a couple of infer¬ 
nal spies. Good Lord! what was that extra¬ 
ordinary noise? He listened, straining his 
ears. It was Fenwick’s breath coming short 
and thick. Why? On the instant he became 
aware that his own breath was laboured and 
that his forehead was wet. He was afraid! 
Afraid of what, he questioned furiously. What 
the devil was wrong? 

Apparently satisfied that the church was 
empty Carlotta rose softly and poising her 
body slightly forwards she gazed intently in 
the direction of a confessional placed in the 
north aisle. Near to it was a door. 

Meanwhile O’Donoghue’s anger had intensi¬ 
fied. He and Fenwick were doing—heaven and 
Fenwick alone knew why—a beastly low-down 
thing. ‘ 4 Fenwick!” he whispered impatiently, 
4 ‘for heaven’s sake, let’s get out of this!” 

Fenwick made no answer. And his silence 
was a menace. 

Dickie mopped his forehead. His lips were 



THE SILKEN SCARF 


9 


dry; his heart was thumping against his ribs, 
What the devil-? 

The silence grew—grew. Now one heard it 
pulsing. And each moment Dickie’s fear deep¬ 
ened. He made a supreme effort to pull himself 
together, but it was useless. He was up against 
something intangible that he had never before 
encountered. Suddenly he became possessed of 
a wild desire to call out to Carlotta, to warn 
her—warn her?—of what? He must be mad 
or dreaming! He shook himself. Instantly 
Fenwick’s hand fell like a grip of iron on his 
wrist. 

The awful silence lasted but a moment longer. 
To O’Donoghue it seemed a century. 

Suddenly the door near the confessional 
opened and a priest appeared. 

So that was all! Here he and Anthony 
had been working themselves, for heaven alone 
knew what reason, into a frenzy—and Car¬ 
lotta had merely come to confession! Dickie 
chuckled. 

“Hss—st!” Fenwick’s voice was scarcely 
recognisable. Again the nightmare of un¬ 
reasoning fear clutched Dickie. 

The priest advanced a few yards, then he 
paused and peered into the shadows. 

Breathlessly 0 ’Donoghue watched. Fen¬ 
wick’s breath was stabbing the stillness. 

The priest advanced a little farther. Then 



10 


THE SILKEN SCARF 


he stopped. He saw Carlotta standing with 
body poised forwards and her arms stretched 
to him. He looked at her across the aisle. 

He was a young man. His face was swept by 
a storm of emotion. Anger—love—passion— 
honour—each in turn sought victory. 

Now Carlotta was moving. First slowly, 
then more swiftly as desire gave her impetus, 
she glided over the intervening space. And 
always she held her arms stretched. Now she 
reached the priest. Her hands clutched his. 

But he was fighting his battle. Wrenching 
his hands away he retreated. She followed. 

Still he retreated. And still she followed, 
always with her lovely arms stretched to him. 

He reached the door of the sacristy. He 
crossed the threshold. Honour had won! 
Then he wavered- He looked back- 

Through the slit of open door a shaft of 
light pierced the dusk of the aisle. It showed 
a gossamer web of dust that swayed, whirled, 
danced now languorously, now trembling in the 
vortex, now being sucked in tempestuously. It 
typified the passions that pulsed by its side. 

Suddenly the shaft was cleft by a woman’s 
figure. Her hands clung to the man—drew 
him. Still he resisted, but now the resistance 
was passive. Up the wanton arms slipped, up, 
up, up, round his arms, to his neck, the hands 
found his face- The door shut, the dancing 








THE SILKEN SCARF 


11 


gossamer was lost. So was Luigi Sarpi’s 
honour. He held Carlotta strained fiercely to 
his heart. 

Tragedy hovered expectant no longer. She 

fell. 

There was a rush. Swift as lightning Fen¬ 
wick reached the clinging figures, thrust them 
asunder. His hands were at the priest’s 
throat. They tightened their grip—tightened 

- Struggling desperately Sarpi plunged 

backwards. A chair stood just behind. He 
stumbled against it. Involuntarily Fenwick 
loosened his hold. There was a sickening 
swaying. Then man and chair fell in a heap 
to the ground. The man did not speak again. 
Luigi Sarpi had broken his neck. 

“S—st!” O’Donoghue clapped his hand 
across Carlotta’s mouth to stifle her scream. 
His own teeth were chattering. Was he 
awake, he wondered. Was he actually living 
through this gruesome scene ? Till now in his 
odd twenty years he had never experienced 
a greater thrill than being in at the death of 
a hunt. And now he had just witnessed 
murder! No! No! Not murder! He recoiled 
from the word. Of course it was not murder, 
the man had tripped over the chair, it was an 
accident. He shrank from the figure stretched 
stark at his feet. 

He glanced round fearfully. But a moment 



12 


THE SILKEN SCARF 


since the church had seemed empty, he and 
Fenwick were swallowed in its dimness, then 
why not other people? He started, his heart 
in his mouth. Surely someone was peering 
round that pillar—quite near? He stared 
rigid. Gradually his muscles relaxed. It was 
nothing but a shadow. But the sacristan, 
where was he ? Surely Carlotta ’s scream must 
have roused him? Again he held his breath, 
listening for a hurried shuffling tread. But 
there was no stir. The church was still wrapped 
in its cool incensed silence. 

But now the stillness held a different quality. 
Till this moment it had been the stillness of an 
instrument of music lying tranquilly at rest. 
Suddenly on its exposed strings a rough hand 
had fallen, a hideously discordant note was 
struck. It died away, but the strings remained 
quivering. And now the tremulous quiet of 
the spacious nave, the arch-roofed aisles, the 
great mysterious Sanctuary voiced their indig¬ 
nation at the outrage by which they had been 
desecrated. 

Dickie looked at Carlotta. She was grovel¬ 
ling at Fenwick’s feet. Had there ever been 
such a mad phantasy? Carlotta who times 
beyond reckoning he had laughed and joked 

with, danced with- He shook himself. 

Surely this hideous nightmare could not be 
true? Why, only last night he had danced with 



THE SILKEN SCARF 


13 


her at the ball at the Palace! He recalled how 
in her picturesque dress as a Sicilian peasant, 
with her great slumbrous eyes, her brilliant 
colouring, the mass of her hanging hair, she 
had held every eye. And now in a paroxysm of 
terror she crouched at Anthony’s feet! He 
wiped the perspiration that poured down his 
face. 

“He was your lover?” Fenwick pointed 
sternly to the quiet figure on the ground. 

Carlotta raised her stricken eyes to his, read¬ 
ing them silently. Then impetuously she flung 
herself forward and twined his knees with her 
arms. 

“Anthony! have mercy! I swear to you he 
was not my lover! Listen! only listen and I 
will make all plain. We were boy and girl 
together. Always he wanted to marry me, but 
I—I did not love him—not as I love you, 
Anthony carissima-” 

“ Tssh! ” He flung off her encircling arms. 

‘Anthony!” she implored. 

‘Go on!” he said sternly. 

She gripped her hands. O’Donoghue turned 
sharply from the agony written on her 
face. 

“He went away at last—when he found I 
would not marry him,” she continued hoarsely; 
“he took orders. Not for five years did we 
meet—not till to-day. She shuddered away 



14 


THE SILKEN SCARF 


from the dead man. “Two months ago he was 
appointed padre to this church. Anthony”— 
she raised entreating hands—“I swear I 
never saw him. I wrote, but he returned my 
letters unopened. It enraged me; I felt that 
now his religion came first, I was jealous”— 
she paused and shrugged her beautiful shoul¬ 
ders—“it is something in my blood, I cannot 
help it, I must always be first. I determined 
he should see me, just—just to find out whether 
he had quite forgotten his love for me, so I— 
I laid a trap.” She faltered under the scorn 
in Fenwick’s face. “I—I sent him a false 
letter. I said in it that somebody in great 
trouble wished to see him in church to-day at 
four o’clock.” She paused. “The rest you 
know,” she added in a whisper. “Anthony! 
Anthony, can’t you forgive?” Her voice broke 
the silence. 

“I hope never to look upon your face again.” 

“Anthony! For God’s sake, have pity! It 
is you, you, only you I love! Don’t cast me 
off! For the love of the Madonna have 
mercy!” 

“I wish to God I had never seen you.” 

It was final, she could read hate in his eyes. 
“Ah!” her voice rose to a wail. 

“Be quiet, Carlotta, you will be heard!” 
Dickie silenced her. 

Fenwick glanced indifferently at him. 


* 


THE SILKEN SCARF 


15 


“What matter if she is heard? The police 
will be here directly.” 

“The police! Anthony!” She was grovel¬ 
ling at Fenwick’s feet. It was horrible to see 
her. “For God’s sake, Anthony, think of the 
scandal, the terrible scandal! I will be ruined 
for life! Anthony, you must not. See”—she 
cringed still closer to him—“see, there is time 
to escape, nobody has heard! Oh, we have 
been mad—but mad !—to stay! Come at once! 
Come! Come! Mr. O’Donoghue! make him! 
Oh, for God’s sake, make him!” She struggled 
to her feet, pulling at Fenwick with one hand, 
at O’Donoghue with the other. 

Dickie stared dumbly from her to Anthony. 
Of all the appalling situations! It was true 
the unfortunate man’s death did not lie at 
Fenwick’s door, still it seemed a horrible, a 
brutal thing to do to slip away and let the 
whole awful business remain shrouded in 
mystery. Yet, on the other hand, shamefully 
as Carlotta had behaved, her reputation must 
be considered. If this affair leaked out she 
was socially dead. Her terror-stricken face 
moved him to the depths of his kindly heart. 
Yes, there was no other course open, Fenwick 

must fly- He glanced at the dead man, 

and his resolution was shaken. After all, 
it was a beastly rotten thing not to face the 


music- 




16 


THE SILKEN SCARF 


“Mr. O’Donoghue, for the love of God! For 
the love of God!” 

“Fenwick, yon had better go,” he whispered 
hoarsely. 

Carlotta’s face was livid, her lips pinched 
with fear. In pity O’Donoghue put his arm 
round her shoulders to support her. 

Silently they waited Fenwick’s decision. 
And while they waited in this tense stillness 
the church seemed to close in on them. The 
shadows seemed to link forces and creep for¬ 
wards till they gathered a threatening mass 
above their heads. The pillars seemed like 
avenging gods, ready to crush them, but at the 
last holding back, granting one further moment 
of grace. Dickie shivered. 

At last Anthony spoke. He turned and 
looked at Carlotta. “Once I loved you. For 

the sake of that love I will shield you now-” 

She stretched her hands to him. He brushed 
them aside. And now she shrank from his piti¬ 
less scorn. “But to the day of my death I 
will hate you for making me turn coward. It 
is the last stone in the pile of my reckoning 
against you.” 

• • • • • • 

The heavy padded door swung to with a dull 
thud. 

In the brilliant garlic-tainted sunshine three 



THE SILKEN SCARF 17 

figures disappeared swiftly up the street of 
steps. 

• • • • • • 

In the church the shadows lightened. The 
stone carven pillars lost their menace. 

Presently the old sacristan lumbered into the 
church and down the aisle. He came to the 
figure of the dead man. Lying by his side was 
a length of silk. 

The old man raised the alarm. But first he 
rolled the silk tightly and put it in his pocket. 
It was a beautiful length of silk. 


CHAPTER I 


Butlerstown was en fete. 

Of the two hundred invitations issued for 
to-night Joan Butler had received one hundred 
and fifty acceptances. The neighbouring houses 
were filled with guests. But at Butlerstown 
itself there were only a few—the Craigs, Dickie 
O’Donoghue and Augusta Hilliard. In the 
matter of accommodation the great square 
building of somewhat forbidding exterior was 
deceptive. The big entrance hall and staircase 
absorbed a disproportionate amount of space. 
It was a matter of regret to Robert Butler. 
He had a passion for surrounding himself with 
people. He disliked his own company. 

Miss Hilliard accepted with alacrity Joan’s 
invitation to stay the night. It saved her the 
discomfort of sallying forth with an attendant 
maid bearing a lantern to guide her through a 
particularly rutty road. Also it saved her the 
subsequent removal of her goloshes in the 
cloak-room under the eyes of more fortunately 
circumstanced women. To Augusta Hilliard 
this was a humiliation. It was pin-pricks of 

this description which had helped to embitter 

18 


THE SILKEN SCARF 


19 


her, though Kitty Craig vowed that she was 
born curdled. 

To Mrs. Craig her own home never made 
a greater appeal than when she was dressing 
for the evening. She found no mirrors to 
compare with her own mirrors, no room so 
convenient as her own room. But she adored 
Joan, and Joan had made a point of her coming 
to stay. Kitty guessed why. Lately Robert 
Butler had been drinking even more heavily 
than usual, and should there be any unhappy 
contretemps to-night Joan would need some¬ 
body to turn to for comfort when the last of 
the guests had left. So together with her hus¬ 
band and the Midget, Mrs. Craig drove over 
that afternoon from The Firs. 

O’Donoghue’s presence at Butlerstown was 
easily accounted for. He dogged Joan’s foot¬ 
steps perpetually. 

They were all at tea in the smoking-room 
when the door burst open and the Midget, 
portly of body, hurled herself in. 

“The man from Thompson’s wants more 
flowers, ’ ’ she announced in her singularly deep 
robust voice. Darting across to Joan she 
squeezed her arm in an ecstasy. “Joan! it 
all looks perfectly sweet! I do wish I was 
grown-up! I wish I w T as all of you!” 

Then she flew to the window-seat and curled 
her arm ingratiatingly round her father’s thin 


20 


THE SILKEN SCARF 


leg. “Daddy dear, may I stay up till ten?” 
Then as Oliver Craig shook his head: “Well 
till twenty minutes to—a quarter—a teeny, 
teeny quarter?” 

“Dickie darling, make him!” She slipped 
from her father's side and plumped herself 
down on O'Donoghue's knee. 

Before anybody could speak the door opened 
again. Mr. Butler appeared. 

“Tea, father?” Joan looked up, then quickly 
dropped her eyes. His face was flushed and 
swollen. 

“That fellow outside wants more flowers or 
rubbish of some kind, ’ ’ he said irritably, sinking 
into an arm-chair. “Tea? no, thanks. You 
know quite well I don't drink slops.” 

The Midget perked up her head from where 
it had been reposing on Dickie's shoulder. 
“Miss Hilliard thinks slops are wholesome,” 
she announced. “She said the other day-” 

“Midget!” said Miss Hilliard sharply. A 
tinge of red showed in her parchment cheeks. 
She sent a threatening glance at the child. 

The Midget openly defied it. She proceeded 
in her fat, mischievous voice: “She said, Uncle 
Robert, that it would be better if you took-” 

“Midget!” Mrs. Craig burst in desperately, 
“if you are very good you may sit up to-night 
till half-past ten—but remember, only on con¬ 
dition that you behave yourself.” At the 




THE SILKEN SCARF 


21 


moment she was ready to make any promise 
that would silence her daughter’s appalling 
tongue. 

She rose and crossed the room to Joan. “Let 
me help you get the flowers.” 

Joan responded gratefully. As she passed, 
Miss Hilliard raised her lorgnette and eyed her 
with disapproval. She was very pale; below 
the grey eyes there were shadows; the tall 
slender figure stooped a little wearily. 

“Joan, you ought to rest, you look tired out. 
When I was a girl I made a rule of lying down 
for an hour or two on the afternoon of a hall 
for the sake of my looks.” 

Joan paused. The eyes that looked down on 
Miss Hilliard’s prim figure were hard, the lips 
were firmly closed. 

“Do you know I shouldn’t care if I looked 
as ugly as sin!” she said bitterly. But the 
low voice was not raised. Five years had 
passed since she came home from school in 
Paris. Since then she had graduated in self- 
control. 

Across the room came an affected little 
“grown-up” laugh. 

“Ugly as sin indeed! Why, you are as beau¬ 
tiful as—as the Queen of England!” The 
Midget also adored Joan. She bounded from 
O’Donoghue’s knee and planted herself before 
her uncle. 


22 


THE SILKEN SCARF 


i 1 Uncle Robert, who is Sin!” she asked curi¬ 
ously. 

He lurched forward, and scowled at the 
thickly fringed brow—or were they green?— 
eyes that pierced him. 

Joan shivered. Instantly Kitty’s soft fingers 
closed round her wrist. 

4 ‘Midget, come here— directly , do you hear? 
We will take you to the garden.” She hurried 
her to the door. 

O’Donoghue half rose. “May I come too, 
Joan?” he asked. 

“No!” she said sharply. Then she repented 
herself; the lips formed themselves into a 
travesty of that little crooked smile of hers 
which he loved. “Not just now — please, 
Dickie. ’’ 

He retreated abruptly. Kitty turned away 
her head. She couldn’t bear looking at hurt 
things. When Dickie was hurt his eyes re¬ 
minded her of a mongrel cuffed by his master. 

Dancing was to be in the hall and in one 
of the great reception rooms. It was a long 
room; gilt-framed mirrors reaching from the 
ceiling to within a foot or so of the floor hung 
on either wall. The polished boards gleamed, 
the wax candles were ready to be lighted, it 
held the subtle suggestion of the joie de vivre 
that every ball-room holds. 


THE SILKEN SCARF 


23 


Kitty peeped in as she went by. “ Every¬ 
thing is quite perfect, Joan dear.” She was 
determined to speak lightly. 

But her cousin was too heart-sick to answer. 
She walked in silence by Mrs. Craig till they 
reached the garden. When she shut the gate 
behind them she turned and met Kitty’s pity¬ 
ing eye. 

She twisted her hands nervously. 4 ‘Kitty, 
you saw father—oh, of course , you saw! ’’ 

“Oh, my dear!” said little Mrs. Craig miser¬ 
ably. Her pretty face was scarlet. “He may 
be—all right. The evening is five hours off. 
In the meantime I know Oliver will—will look 
after him.” She paused. Then impulsively: 
“Joan dear, I am so horribly, horribly sorry 
for you!” 

Suddenly Joan’s self-possession fled. Her 
hands dropped despairingly at her sides. 
“Kitty! how am I to 1 go through to-night? 
The thing is a nightmare! I would give every 
mortal possession that it was to-morrow!” She 
bit her quivering lips. “If at this time of day 
he has—he has—oh, you know what I mean! 
—what will he be like by supper-time? Kitty! 
think! think! before everybody we know—the 
disgrace—the awful disgrace of it! ” 

“Oh, my dear!” Kitty again murmured. 
What could she say ? 



24 


THE SILKEN SCARF 


4 ‘Drunk—Mr. Butler drunk at his own ball!” 
Spoken in Joan’s low well-modulated voice the 
thing sounded indescribably shocking. 

“Joan! you mustn’t!” Kitty held up both 
hands as though she had received a blow. 

The girl’s eyes travelled from end to end of 
the garden. 

“There is nobody to hear, Kitty—nobody 
but the flowers.” She dropped hurriedly on 
her knees and began to pick some violets. 

Kitty watching her pitifully saw a tear fall 
on the leaves. It frightened her. Quickly 
moved herself to tears or laughter she had 
rarely seen Joan cry. 

“Sometimes I wonder,” said Joan unstead¬ 
ily, “how the flowers can grow here. To me 
the whole place is under a blight—I think I am 
under a blight myself.” She looked up and 
saw Mrs. Craig’s face. It unnerved her. She 
let the violets fall and wrung her hands 
together. 

“Kitty! often I feel I can’t go on as I am 
for much longer! There is never a day that I 
am not trying to cover up things; before the 
servants I am perpetually pretending that 
everything is right. Oh! it wouldn’t be quite 
so dreadful if we could live in a cottage without 
any servants!—but they are all over the house. 
Whenever—whenever anything happens”—the 
voice shook—“there are eyes peering from 


THE SILKEN SCARF 


25 


every corner to see—to see how I am taking 
it! I live with a mask on. Is it any wonder I 
have the reputation for being cold? Kitty! I 
believe I could bear anything—anything—the 
most awful affliction—but I cannot endure dis¬ 
grace—it is a knife stabbing me continually . 9 ’ 

Mrs. Craig choked. 

‘‘Don’t!” said Joan sharply. “You are not 
to cry—I can’t afford to break down, I must 
get through to-night—I have got to face it 
somehow. ’ ’ 

Kitty mopped her blue eyes fiercely. For 
the moment she hated men. It was the first 
time Joan had spoken so openly to her of her 
father. 

Presently Joan went on: “It’s not only the 
servants who watch, it’s outside people; they 
look curiously at me—or perhaps I imagine 
they do, it may be my wretched pride.” She 
broke off and laughed bitterly. “When I was 
at school I thought it was quite a fine thing to 
be Miss Butler of Butlerstown; I used to long 
to be grown-up to hunt, to go to balls. I 
thought it was lovely to be rich, to be made a 

fuss about—and now-” She struck her 

hands passionately together. 

Mrs. Craig slipped down on the path and put 
her arm round her. “Dear, I guessed a good 
deal, but I never thought it was so bad as this. ’ ’ 

“Bad!” Joan whispered, “you don’t know 



26 


THE SILKEN SCARF 


how bad. Often I lie awake half the night won¬ 
dering how I am to face the years. When we 
go out together to dinner I am in torture all 
the time lest he should—disgrace himself. ” 

“You shouldn’t go about with him! It isn’t 
right for you to be subjected to such humilia¬ 
tion!” Mrs. Craig burst out vehemently. 

Joan swallowed hard. “He is so proud of 
me, he likes to see me admired. As for me— 
Kitty, this is the tragedy of it!—from the bot¬ 
tom of my heart I am ashamed of him— 
ashamed of my father.” She repeated the 
w T ords slowly. “Doesn’t it sound dreadful? 
But it’s true. Sometimes when we are out 
hunting-” she broke off. 

Kitty waited a moment, then she reminded 
her gently. “Well, dear? out hunting.” Then 
she added sharply: “Joan, what is it?” 

Joan was standing staring straight before 
her. In her eyes there was fear. In some un¬ 
canny fashion she gave Mrs. Craig the impres¬ 
sion of being far away. 

“Joan!” she shook her by the arm. “Joan! 
what are you looking at?” 

Joan started. Her eyes lost their remote¬ 
ness, but Kitty noticed that they were still 
frightened. 

“Did you see, Kitty, just over there?” She 
pointed to the farthest end of the garden. 



THE SILKEN SCARF 


27 


“Did I see what, Joan ? But there is nothing 
to see,” Mrs. Craig said, puzzled. 

Joan began slowly. “I saw-” then she 

made a pretence of laughing. “ Kitty, it is only 
foolishness. I believe my nerves have gone to 
pieces.” 

But she was trembling. Kitty felt a little 
alarmed. 

“Joan, did you see something?” she insisted. 
“Tell me, what was it?” 

But Joan would say no more. “It was only 
my imagination, Kit. Let’s take back the 
flowers.” 

A spring garden speaks of youth and laugh¬ 
ter, it is not the place for ghosts. One is more 
apt to find them in an autumn setting; hope and 
promise lie hidden among the fallen leaves. 
But Kitty felt distinctly creepy while she 
walked by Joan’s side down the path that ran 
through a carpet of violets and daffodils. What 
had Joan seen? Later she spoke of it to her 
husband. 

He had come to her room to ask if his tie was 
straight. She was powdering her tiny tip-tilted 
nose. Through the mirror he eyed her discon¬ 
tentedly. He held beauty aids in detestation. 

“For mercy’s sake, don’t turn yourself into 
a flour-bin, Kit! ’ ’ 

She made a little face at him. “Don’t be 



28 


THE SILKEN SCARF 


foolish, Oliver! You know yon dislike a shiny 
nose as much as I do! ’ ’ She paused to put the 
final artistic touch, then she turned from the 
silver-strewn toilet-table to him and surveyed 
him solemnly. 

“Joan was so strange in the garden a little 
while ago.” She told him what happened and 
wound up with: “My own impression is she 
was in some kind of trance.” 

“A trance! My dear child, don’t talk such 
rubbish!” he said impatiently. 

“And why not a trance?” She stamped her 
foot impatiently. ‘ ‘ That’s what comes of being 
a Saxon—you don’t believe anything that you 
can’t see with your two eyes, and only then with 
your glasses on!” She laughed, she never 
could be angry longer than two minutes. But 
the remembrance of Joan’s face made her grave 
again. She walked across the room and slipped 
her hand into her husband’s. 

“Oliver, shall I tell you what came suddenly 
into my head when I looked at Joan? Promise 
you won’t laugh?” 

6 i Tell me first what I am not to laugh at, ’ ’ he 
said, in his matter-of-fact way. 

“Oh!” she said pettishly. She tried to pull 
away her hand, but he slipped his arm round 
her and kissed her in his ridiculous school- 
boyish fashion. 

“Be careful, Oliver!” she warned, drawing 


THE SILKEN SCARF 


29 


herself away—she adored him, but sometimes he 
irritated her dreadfully—“I thought of—dead 
people ! 9 9 

She was so much in earnest that he forgot to 
laugh. 

“Good lord, Kitty!” he said blankly. 


CHAPTER II 


Guests had begun to arrive. The windows 
blazed with light, the long avenue twinkled 
with lanterns. The band, ordered from Dublin, 
was tuning-up in the ball-room. Pretty girls 
smiled in expectancy. Plain girls smiled too, 
but not so spontaneously. Not infrequently it 
needs a certain amount of heroism to face the 
moment of programme-filling with an unruffled 
front. Great bowls of violets were placed 
everywhere. The gardens at Rutlerstown were 
famous for them. 

“It all smells perfectly bee-u-tiful!’ ’ the 
Midget declared ecstatically. But she did not 
refer wholly to the violets. Hanging on to 
0 ’Donoghue’s arm she implored him to accom¬ 
pany her as far as the door leading to the 
kitchen premises—such a “lovely dinner-party 
smell ’ ’ was to be encountered on the other side 
of it. 

He declined firmly. “Go yourself and 
smell!” he suggested, knowing very well that 
she wouldn’t. She was much too importantly 
conscious of the glories of blue silk and open¬ 
work stockings. 


30 


THE SILKEN SCARF 


31 


Miss Hilliard had taken up her position on 
a chair placed in the well of the staircase; it 
was a good vantage-point for criticism. On 
her bodice she wore indiscriminately two or 
three pieces of jewellery of the cameo type. 
Her plum-coloured satin gown was ornamented 
profusely with beetle trimming, the gift many 
years ago of a friend in India.; Miss Hilliard 
had great respect for that trimming. 

At the foot of the wide shallow staircase Joan 
stood by her father. Like Kitty she was dressed 
in white, but while Mrs. Craig was always fash¬ 
ionable Joan followed a picturesque style of her 
own. 

She never had much colour, but Dickie watch¬ 
ing her across the hall noticed that to-night her 
skin was like marble. She held her little dark 
head very high and had forced a smile to her 
lips. She looked cold and proud. Most people 
judged her that. 

Robert Butler was speaking with an excess 
of geniality; his voice was loud, he laughed 
oftener than necessary. For Joan’s sake 
O’Donoghue wished the night well over. 

“Sir George and Lady Martin,” the butler 
announced. 

Mr. Butler took a step forward to greet his 
guests, and as he did so he lurched a little. 
O’Donoghue held his breath: was he going to 
fall? Then he mopped his forehead with in- 



32 


THE SILKEN SCARF 


tense relief. Joan had saved the situation. A 
white-gloved hand had gripped firmly her 
father’s arm and a cool, clear voice had made 
some comment about the over-polished floor. 

Presently Dickie crossed the hall and held 
out his hand for her programme. 6 ‘ How many, 
Joan?” he asked humbly. 

For the moment there was a lull in the ar¬ 
rivals and there was nobody within earshot. 
Mr. Butler was speaking to a portly dowager 
wearing a black velvet gown cut so exceedingly 
decollete that had her granddaughter appeared 
in it Mrs. Grundy would have been outraged— 
but dowagers of fortune are notoriously a law 
unto themselves. 

Joan gave him her card. “You can have as 
many as you want.’ ’ 

For a second his heart beat ridiculously fast, 
but his hopes were instantly dashed to the 
ground. 

“I needn’t keep up appearances with you, 
Dickie,” she added in a low voice. She glanced 
at her father. The grey eyes were wide with 
fear. 

His spirits rose again. At least she had come 
to him for sympathy. At all times he was in¬ 
articulate. He cudgelled his brain now for 
something consoling to say. But he was 
unfortunate. 

“Look here, Joan, don’t you worry—the 


THE SILKEN SCARF 


33 


women may not notice that—that anything is— 
is—er—wrong. ” He mopped his face vigor¬ 
ously. It was beastly difficult to know what to 
say. “As for the men—well, you see, Joan, 
perhaps we don’t think that—er—that sort of 
thing quite so unpardonable-” 

She flamed round on him. “How dare you, 
Dickie? I hate men!” 

“Our dance, Miss Butler?” 

Somebody claimed her. Dickie retreated dis¬ 
comfited; how did he always put his foot in it 
with Joan? 

“Why are you not dancing?” Miss Hilliard’s 
severe voice asked at his elbow. 

He dropped lazily into the chair by her. “I 
prefer to see other people making themselves 
useful,” he said genially. 

“Dickie, you are shockingly lazy!” 

But her eyes were not so disapproving as her 
words. Dickie hadn’t an enemy in the world. 

“And why shouldn’t I be?” he asked with his 
delightful smile. “What harm do I do any¬ 
body?” 

i 1 What good do you ? ’ ’ she rapped out. ‘‘ Be¬ 
sides you are doing harm. Only yesterday 
Father Lacy told me that at least half a dozen 
roofs in the village were leaking. Why don’t 
you look after your property?” 

He beamed triumphantly. “Every blessed 
one of those roofs was mended last month, Buck- 





34 


THE SILKEN SCARF 


ley saw to it. Some rascals were trying to get 
on the soft side of the padre.’’ 

“Hum!” 

She let her attention wander temporarily 
while she took a sharp survey of the hall. Near 
the fireplace the Humphreys sisters were stand¬ 
ing together. They belonged to the brigade of 
“duty-dance” girls, but they were resourceful 
maidens. With a little care they spread their 
engagements judicially throughout the evening; 
thus it was not too obvious that they were little 
in demand—except to Augusta Hilliard. 
Catching her eye now they flung renewed ani¬ 
mation into their conversation. But their ef¬ 
forts were fruitless. Some quality in her stare 
made them uncomfortably alive to the precise 
value she placed on their present intercourse. 
Having assured herself on this point Miss Hil¬ 
liard returned to Dickie’s affairs. 

“Did you say Buckley? Dickie, that man is 
only playing on you. Why don’t you send him 
off and see to things yourself ? ’ ’ 

He flushed slightly. Joan too was constantly 
urging him to get rid of his steward. 

“Look here, Miss Hilliard, isn’t that a bit 
rough on me? I can’t go poking my nose down 
beastly drains and running up ladders to find 
leaks—anyway why should I? Buckley’s a 
good man and saves me no end of grizzling.” 

“That’s the only reason he’s good to you,” 


THE SILKEN SCARF 


35 


she said tartly. “Get somebody else or see to 
things yourself—it would do you good, Dickie, 
you are getting fat! ’ ’ 

The music stopped and put an end to their 
conversation. Kitty drifted by. She was not 
quite her radiant self to-night, she found it an 
effort to be frivolous. On the pretext of fetch¬ 
ing her an ice she dismissed her partner and 
waited by Miss Hilliard. 

Oliver was lounging against the wall at the 
farther side of the hall. From a similar strong¬ 
hold at every ball he observed his wife’s flirta¬ 
tions with a serenity that piqued her to greater 
audacity. But to-night she felt uplifted by his 
devotion, she sent him a little nod. Whatever 
happened, Oliver remained a good, comfortable 
rock. 

Miss Hilliard eyed her; silently she expressed 
disapproval of her very French frock. 

It moved Mrs. Craig to mischief; she loved 
teasing Miss Hilliard. 

“This is the very latest Tango step, how do 
you like it?” She demonstrated, displaying a 
generous amount of silk stocking. 

Miss Hilliard pushed back her chair. 

“Don’t you like it?” Kitty asked innocently. 

“I confess I prefer the waltz,” said Miss 
Hilliard stiffly; “but of course, that is much 
too old-fashioned for you.” 

“Much!” Mrs. Craig nodded her fluffy 


36 


THE SILKEN SCARF 


head, smiling. “It bores me, and you know the 
modern commandment: “Thou shalt not bore 
thyself!’ ” 

Miss Augusta drew herself up. “It is a pity 
you don’t obey the others with equal vigilance,” 
she sparred. ‘ ‘ This—Tango, I presume, is your 
latest craze?” 

“The very latest!” Kitty assured her 
solemnly. “But I am just a leetle tired of it, 
I must look out for something else—in the oppo¬ 
site direction by way of a change! ’ ’ 

Miss Hilliard tossed her elaborately frizzed 
head (Kitty called it the Royal Coiffure). “75 
there anything new left for you?” she demanded 
caustically. “Let me see”—she tapped the 
items off on her fingers—“you have had politics 
—I forget, did you end by being a Nationalist, 
or was it a Unionist?—then there was cooking 
—poultly-keeping—gardening—the simple life 
—slumming-” she snorted ironically. 

Mrs. Craig giggled. “That was the best fun 
of all!” 

“Fun? I fail to see where fun could come 
in.” The voice w T as frigid. 

“You see I got so many points of view,” 
Kitty gurgled. 

It seemed short of indecent that the poor 
should have any point of view at all. Miss Hil¬ 
liard suggested as much. 

Again Kitty giggled wickedly. “I once had 




THE SILKEN SCARF 


37 


considerable enlightenment about social status 
from an old lady who in her palmy days kept an 
outfitting shop in Regent Street.’’ 

Miss Hilliard scarcely troubled to hide a 
yawn. 

“I am not interested in the social degrees of 
the shopkeeper,” she said. 

“Oh, but it wasn’t the shopkeeper, it was— 
don’t be shocked, dear Miss Hilliard!”— 
Kitty’s eyes were dancing, “it was one of her 
customers. This old lady spoke of her with the 
greatest respect as having been ‘high up’ in the 
— demi-monde!” 

Miss Augusta rose majestically. “Kitty, you 
forget yourself.” She glanced meaningly at 
O’Donoghue, who was grinning broadly. 

“I know I do—I am always forgetting my¬ 
self, it is the only way to live!” Mrs. Craig re¬ 
sponded. She chuckled mischievously as Miss 
Hilliard stalked away, her stiff plum-coloured 
satin gown, with the ridiculous green beetle 
trimming, rustling with outraged propriety. 
Then her eye alighted on her daughter. It 
was long past ten o’clock. She turned to 
0 ’Donoghue. 

“Dickie, like a dear, get the Midget to bed, 
she’ll go for you.” 

She watched him lounge across the hall and 
enter into lively conversation with the mis¬ 
named sturdy Midget. An amused smile 


38 


THE SILKEN SCARF 


hovered on her lips when the two finally went 
up the stairs together, the Midget hanging af¬ 
fectionately from his arm. Children, dogs, old 
men, old Women, all loved Dickie. Mrs. Craig 
loved him herself. 

For Joan the night crawled by. She went 
through dance succeeding dance mechanically, 
she made stereotyped remarks, she smiled, even 
she laughed. But how she hated it all!—hated 
the posturing figures, the swish of silken skirts, 
the voluptuousness of the flower-scented atmos¬ 
phere. The music mocked her. Was all this 
light-heartedness a travesty? Did each of these 
pleasure-seekers hold in his heart a skeleton— 
as she did—a skeleton that only waited oppor¬ 
tunity for the cupboard door to open to topple 
into daylight and disgrace her irretrievably? 
She had a horrible conviction that her cupboard 
would open to its widest to-night. As the hours 
passed she saw with horror that the colour 
deepened in her father’s face, that his gait grew 
more unsteady. She saw men eyeing him 
furtively. Two dowagers, their heads near to¬ 
gether, abruptly broke off their conversation as 
she passed by. Everybody knew! Everybody 
saw! And she had to feign ignorance! Hu¬ 
miliation tortured her. Oh, if only they would 
all go away and leave her to face it alone. But 
balls at Butlerstown were a rarity, three o ’clock 
came and still the rooms were full. 


THE SILKEN SCARF 


39 


The little dark head was held erect. “They 
shan’t see I care—they shan’t!” she said to 
herself with clenched teeth. 

Half an hour later the terrible thing 
happened. 

The band was at supper. Their place was 
taken by O’Donoghue at the piano. 

Joan never liked him so well as when he was 
playing. Some of his pleasant comfortable 
materialism slipped from him when his fingers 
wandered with exquisite touch over the keys. 
His art raised even the banality of the Tango 
to a different plane. Those who were not danc¬ 
ing crowded into the inner room to hear him. 
Joan sat by herself in the great hall listening— 
a slender, white-robed figure, as desolate a 
chatelaine as any group of ancestors, from gilt 
frames on dark oaken walls, ever looked down 
upon. 

A door at the farther end of the hall led into 
the supper-room. It opened. J oan turned and 
looked. Then her heart stood still. 

Her father was staggering towards her. Mid¬ 
way across the expanse of polished floor he 
stopped, his head wagging foolishly, a vacant 
smile on his face. Joan sprang to her feet, then 
she stood petrified with horror. He had caught 
the swing of Dickie’s quick, decisive measure, 
and was swaying perilously from side to side. 
His heavy face was purple. 



40 


THE SILKEN SCARF 


She sent a lightning glance at the crowd 
grouped inside the open doorway. They were all 
engrossed with the music; so far nobody had 
seen. There was time yet to stop a scandal. 
But at any moment the music might end—the 
knot of people at the door disperse. She pic¬ 
tured them streaming into the hall. Oh, she 
must get him out of sight. 

“Father!” she called softly. “Father!” 

Now she was ready to shriek in her despair. 
The arms were striving to keep time with the 
unsteady feet. 

The music stopped. She set her teeth and 
flung hack her head. In another minute the hall 
would be full. Oh, she couldn’t bear the dis¬ 
grace. She covered her face with her trembling 
hands. From the inner room came the babel 
of voices, the clapping of hands. Dickie was 
playing again—oh, the relief, the blessed relief! 

‘ ‘ Kitty!—Kitty, quick! ’ ’ 

Mrs. Craig appeared at the head of the stair¬ 
case. Joan was beckoning wildly to her. 

In a flash she took in the situation. Was 
there time to save it? 

“Uncle Robert!” Breathless, she was at his 
side. “Don’t you want a partner?” She 
smiled up at him in her prettiest fashion, one 
hand was slipped firmly below his elbow. She 
would humour him by dancing a few steps, then 
coax him to a seat—if there was time! 


THE SILKEN SCARF 41 

Joan watched transfixed—oh, for time—for a 
little time! 

The dance was nearly over, the chords came 
crashing faster and faster. 4 4 Uncle Robert, 
shall we rest just for a little ?” Again Kitty 
smiled into the bloated face. 

He shook his head obstinately. 4 4 No, no!” 
And Mrs. Craig could have sobbed. 

With a crash the music ended. There was a 
second’s pause. 

Then everything danced before Joan’s eyes. 
The great candelabra suspended from the ceil¬ 
ing was a medley of shimmering light, the por¬ 
traits on the walls swayed through a haze. The 
doorway was a jumble of colour. 

Then the jumble straightened itself, every¬ 
thing stood out in bold relief. The candles 
shone steadily, showing up cruelly the pitiful 
spectacle in the middle of the hall, the dismay 
written on every face. 

Some faint perception of the enormity of his 
conduct penetrated to Robert Butler’s fuddled 
brain with the cessation of the music and the 
sudden filling of the hall. 

44 Quick, Uncle Robert, let us sit down!” Kitty 
whispered. 

He let her guide him across the floor. They 
had nearly reached the wall. His foot slipped, 
he tottered. Kitty made a frantic effort to sup- 


42 


THE SILKEN SCARF 


port him. A man dashed forwards—it was too 
late. He was lying in a heap on the ground. 

• • » • • • 

How long did that awful silence last? To 
Joan it was an eternity. She could not lift her 
bowed head. 

Then the tension snapped. With a sudden 
inspiration Dickie dashed back to the piano and 
struck up a waltz. The guests jostled one an¬ 
other in their anxiety to get away from the 
pitiable spectacle. 

Joan stood with her hands gripped together. 
In a dream she saw a little group of men, her 
father in the middle, going up the wide stair¬ 
case. She saw them disappear down the 
corridor. 

Mrs. Craig came and put her arm round her. 
She was very white. 4 4 Oh, my dear, my dear! ’’ 
She could say nothing else. 

Was it a dream, or had she answered: 
44 Don’t speak to me, Kitty—for God’s sake, 
don’t speak to me! ’ ’ 

A hand was laid on her shoulder. Through 
the nightmare she heard Oliver Craig speaking 
in his queer, jerky way: 44 Keep a stiff upper 
lip, Joan! hold up your head!” 

With a supreme effort she straightened her 
features. She flung back her head. 

• ••••• 

The last good-night was said. The last guest 



THE SILKEN SCARF 


43 


had bundled thankfully into his carriage. The 
last lamp had gleamed through the darkness of 
the long avenue. There was no longer any 
need for Joan to keep a stiff upper lip. 

Dickie found her in the morning-room that 
overlooked the river. Only lately her father 
had had it decorated for her in the shades of 
blue she affected. He never spared any ex¬ 
pense to give her pleasure. She had flung 
herself on the sofa. She was sobbing 
uncontrollably. 

He fidgeted about for a moment not knowing 
what to say. 

She gave one glance at him, then dropped her 
head again. “Dickie,” she wept, “I would 
rather see him—dead!” 

“Joan—don’t, dear—don’t.” He came and 
knelt by the sofa. 

It hurt him horribly to see her with her pride 
dragged through the dust—Joan, with her cool 
little air of aloofness, her soft voice, that ador¬ 
able trick she had of twisting her mouth side¬ 
ways when she laughed. His eyes were a little 
misty. 

“Dickie! I wish I were dead!” In this 
hour of bitter humiliation reserve fell from 
her. 

“Joan—oh, I say, Joan, you shouldn’t, you 
know, should you—what?” In his dismay he 
ran his fingers through his smoothly plastered 


44 


THE SILKEN SCARF 


hair. To him death was the most stupendous 
of all the calamities. 

“I mean it, Dickie.’’ She raised her face 
again. He looked hurriedly away, her eyes 
were grief-stricken. “ Death is nothing—noth¬ 
ing at all compared with—with disgrace. ’ ’ She 
buried her shamed face in the cushions. “How 
can I ever—ever look one of those people in the 
face again after—to-night?” She jumped up 
and began to pace the room. ‘ ‘ Dickie! I can’t 
bear it—I can’t! ” 

He was almost in despair. 

“I say, Joan—bless my soul, I don’t know 
what to say!” He caught at her hand as she 
passed. “Look here, dear, I am beastly sorry 
—it was unutterably caddish of him—no, of 
course I shouldn’t say that—he is your 

father-” He sought frantically for words. 

“What I mean is that—er—I am frightfully— 
yes, frightfully sorry, but as to your not being 
able to look people in the face again and all that 
rot—beg your pardon, Joan, shouldn’t say that 
either, but it’s beastly hard to explain. Of 
course it was shocking of him—shocking—be¬ 
fore ladies too—but ” His tolerant soul 

found excuse for the sinner, he fell back on the 
palliation he had made earlier in the evening: 
“it was a lapse—quite unpardonable at such a 
time of course—but still a lapse—perhaps 
men,”—he blundered on, trying to comfort her 




THE SILKEN SCARF 


45 


—“don’t look on that sort of thing quite as 
women do—shocking, I admit-” 

She broke in sharply, her eyes were flaming. 
“ Dickie, if you want me ever again to speak to 
you—don’t! There is no excuse. And as to 
men and women judging a hateful thing like 
this differently, it isn’t true—it should not be 
true. It should look as—as degrading to one 
as to the other. There are not two standards.” 

O’Donoghue seldom contested a point. 
“Quite right, Joan, quite right,” he stammered. 
Then he forgot his awkwardness at sight of her 
despair. She had flung herself down again on 
the sofa. 

4 ‘ Joan, I can’t bear to see you cry like that, 
dear. ’ ’ He sat down by her and took her hand, 
stroking it gently as a woman. 

His touch was comforting; by degrees her 
sobs lessened. She sat up, and presently her 
tired head drooped till it rested on his shoulder. 

So Mrs. Craig found them sitting ten min¬ 
utes later. 

Dickie did not move when she came in. He 
just looked silently at Kitty with that wistful 
“mongrel” expression in his eyes which invari¬ 
ably brought a lump to her throat. 

“Come to bed, Joan,” she said quietly. 

Softly the three stole up the wide staircase. 
The air was perfumed with violets. Joan 
caught her breath. She had loved violets, but 



46 


THE SILKEN SCARF 


in the future their fragrance would always hold 
for her the remembrance of bitterest hu¬ 
miliation. 

Dawn was glimmering through the windows. 
The hall, bare of furniture, looked unfamiliar. 

Kitty released her hand when she reached 
her own door. 

“I am coming in a minute to help you undress, 
I sent Norris to bed.” Joan’s eyes thanked 
her for her thought. Then Mrs. Craig disap¬ 
peared through her door. 

Joan turned to Dickie and held out both hands. 

“Dickie, you have been good to me—thank 
you. ’ ’ 

The blood rushed to his face, his hands were 
trembling. He longed to take her in his arms, 
to hold her close—never again to let her go. 
But she looked so white, so tired, so infinitely 
sad, that the passion died from his heart. He 
dropped her hands. 

“Good-night, Joan dear,” he said gently, 
“try to get a little sleep.” 

• • • • t • 

The grey of the dawn turned to silver, then 
a rose-pink crept up the wall, lingered there a 
while, then melted in the pale gold of March’s 
sun. 

It found O’Donoghue sitting on the edge of 
his bed. His face was buried in his arms which 
rested on the rail. He had not undressed. 




CHAPTEB III 


“ Drxjnk as a lord, Benjamin! I assure you it 
was the most disgraceful scene!” 

When with her contemporaries, Augusta 
Hilliard lost some of the primness of speech to 
which she treated the younger generation. En¬ 
grained in her was the “governess” instinct 
peculiar to many women. 

Mr. Carnegie raised two wrinkled hands in 
horrified deprecation. Then as though better 
to digest his companion’s words he lowered 
himself slowly on to the garden seat. It‘was 
an amateurish piece of carpentry. At the Pour 
Chimney House there was little money to spare. 
Benjamin had not found a life devoted to re¬ 
search work lucrative. 

“Augusta”—he spoke a trifle pedantically— 
“you are making some mistake. Kobert Butler 
is not—not perhaps quite so steady as one 
might wish, but remember he is a gentleman. 
What you say occurred last night is incredible 
—absolutely incredible! I think, Augusta”— 
he looked anxiously at her—“it would be more 
charitable to ascribe it to illness.” 

‘ 1 Charitable! ’ 9 


47 


48 


THE SILKEN SCARF 


In her turn Augusta raised her hands heaven¬ 
wards, as though begging toleration for such 
crass stupidity. She shot a scornful glance at 
Benjamin. He sat, his hands folded over his 
stick, distress written plainly on his gentle old 
face. Then she turned and looked significantly 
at the four chimneys of the shabby red-brick 
house. To north, south, east and west they 
sent their smoke. Equally wide was Mr. Car¬ 
negie ’s charity—in Miss Hilliard’s opinion, his 
deplorable charity. 

“Benjamin, don’t talk fiddlesticks! Illness 
indeed! I tell you it was the most disgraceful 
exhibition. I haven’t yet recovered.” 

But a less kindly listener than Mr. Carnegie 
might have been struck by a greater briskness 
of demeanour in Miss Hilliard this morning. 
The very hook of her big nose suggested in¬ 
creased alertness. 

“Deplorable, most deplorable, Augusta,” he 
murmured, “if it really is as you say.” 

‘ ‘ Ch—ch! ’ ’ she clicked impatiently at his dis¬ 
belief. *“I have two eyes in my head, Benjamin, 
and I thank heaven for them.” She shot a 
meaning glance at him, which went unseen. 
“Directly after breakfast I packed my things 
and came away. I had no intention of remain¬ 
ing in a house where there were disreputable 
proceedings.” 

A swift flash of anger fired his blue eyes. 


THE SILKEN SCARF 


49 


“Was there nothing you could do for that 
poor child ?” 

Miss Hilliard’s lips tightened. “Joan is in 
no need of my services. Before I left I went 
to her room and told her I was exceedingly 
sorry that her father should have so utterly 
disgraced her-” 

“Ah!” Benjamin shrank as though he had 
received a blow. 

Unmoved, Miss Hilliard continued. “But 
she was in no need of my sympathy. She 
begged—no, commanded me never again to 
mention the subject to her.” The tight lips 
compressed to the tightest of lines. 

“Poor child!” Benjamin said softly. 

“She certainly does need pity,” Miss Hilliard 
conceded grudgingly. “But those stuck-up 
airs of hers won’t help to get her much!” 

Mr. Carnegie straightened himself and sur¬ 
veyed his visitor sternly. 

“Never have I found Joan 1 stuck-up.’ ” 

“Naturally you haven’t!” she retorted 
sourly. “You always show her that you con¬ 
sider her perfect, and it’s only human nature 
that she should like you for it and keeps her airs 
for people not quite so blind as you! Anyway, 
she wants neither me nor my sympathy. Kitty 
Craig is with her.” 

She paused, silently criticising the daffodil 
border. Then: “As to Kitty, she went beyond 



50 


THE SILKEN SCARF 


the limits last night. I assure you, Benjamin, 
with O’Donoghue standing by, she told me an 
exceedingly risque story, without a blush on her 
face—though to be sure it would have been hard 
to see it with the powder thick on her face! 

And as to her frock-! skimpy above and 

skimpy below, I can describe it no other way! ’ ’ 
Her eyes sparkled angrily. ‘ 4 Personally, I 
don’t consider her a good companion for Joan. 
I am very glad that Oliver’s leave is just up.” 

Benjamin surveyed her sternly. “Kitty 
Craig is a most charming young woman; she has 
a heart of gold, ’ ’ he said stoutly. 

Miss Hilliard stood up; she had reached the 
end of her patience. 

“Benjamin! Are you really so blind? You 
are seventy, yet you believe, or say you believe, 
that every woman is good, just because she is a 
woman, and that every man is at heart a good 
fellow, though his impulses sometimes lead him 
astray! Pshaw! Will you never learn com¬ 
mon-sense? Personally, I should be nauseated 
if I thought the world a box of sugar-plums— 
sugar all round, some more, some less, but to 
every one a bit! ” 

He permitted himself a mild sarcasm. 

“1 don’t think you need fear any such indis¬ 
position, Augusta!” 

Unflinchingly she met his eye. 



THE SILKEN SCARF 


51 


“I don’t think I need, and I thank heaven for 
it!” 

Down the path she stalked majestically before 
him. Entirely indifferent to the shabbiness of 
her attire, rating money at rather less than its 
valuation, magnificently satisfied that “family” 
was the best of all dowers, graciously conde¬ 
scending to the lowly born, she was a true type 
of the Irish county gentlewoman fallen on 
penurious days. 

She drew up by the wide curved bed which he 
called his rose garden, and pointed to it with a 
belittling air. 

“Any marvels likely to make their appear¬ 
ance this year, Benjamin?” 

His face lit, roses were his hobby. In this 
sheltered corner a tree already showed green. 
He touched it tenderly with his stick. 

“I have a suspicion, Augusta—mind you, ’tis 
only a suspicion!—but I think this time I am 
right, that this will turn out a La France! ’ ’ 

She looked first at him, then at the tree. Then 
she sniffed and walked on. 

He hastened after her. “Well, Augusta, 
what is your opinion!” he asked anxiously. 
She was a renowned gardener. 

She glanced at him over her shoulder. “I 
think,” she said, “that your La France is an 
ordinary—cabbage, no more and no less! But 


52 


THE SILKEN SCARF 


it’s a way many of your La Frances have, isn ’t 
it, Benjamin? ’ ’ Then at the disappointment on 
his face she repented a little of her unkindness. 
“After all, what does it matter if it is a cab¬ 
bage? You will say—and I really believe you 
will think it”—she laughed as genially as she 
ever permitted herself to laugh—Miss Hilliard’s 
laughter always struck the listener as under 
protest—“that a cabbage is as beautiful in its 
own way as a La France! For heaven’s sake, 
learn sense, Benjamin!” 

He laughed, without any touch of rancour. 

‘‘ How much nicer you are when you let your¬ 
self be a human being, Augusta!” 

Then he opened the rusty iron gate, and bid 
her good-bye, holding his soft hat in his hand 
in his old-world style. 

She stepped out at a brisk pace to cover the 
half mile of dusty road that led to her own 
house. It was called The Nest—an apt title, as 
Mrs. Craig remarked, for w r hat was a hotbed of 
gossip. Just beyond lay The Firs. It was 
Kitty’s old home; on his death her father left it 
to her. Here she and Oliver always came to 
spend their long leave. A thick belt of pines 
afforded an effectual screen from Miss Hil¬ 
liard’s inquisitive eyes. Mrs. Craig openly re¬ 
joiced over those trees. 

The country was wild. On either side of the 
road stretched a common, thickly covered with 


THE SILKEN SCARF 


53 


gorse; it shone gorgeously yellow in the March 
sunshine. Mingling with its clear scent came a 
whiff of the sea that lay a couple of miles away 
at the other side of the hill. 

Tramping along the glaring road Miss Hil¬ 
liard chuckled. How neatly she had summed 
up Benjamin in her speech about the rose-tree! 
Had there ever lived a more confirmed opti¬ 
mist? The perpetual effort to open his eyes 
was the salt of Augusta Hilliard’s existence. 
Nobody quite so foolish had ever been born— 
yet at the bottom of her crabbed heart there 
lurked an admiration for his childlike simplicity. 

He was now seventy, she was five years 
younger, and all her life she had known him. 
She remembered his wife. It always pleased 
her to recall that from the very first she had 
pronounced her a baggage. And how was it 
possible that a girl accustomed from babyhood 
to travel all over the Continent with a dissipated 
father—(in Miss Hilliard’s opinion people who 
owned no settled home because they w^ere born 
with the “wander fever” must necessarily be 
dissipated; further she had the lowest opinion 
of Continental morals)—could ever settle down 
to a humdrum country life? Benjamin w T as 
mad to suppose it. Events speedily proved her 
right. Vivien quickly wearied. It was not en¬ 
tirely her fault; all day her husband was buried 
in his books, she had to find her own amuse- 


54 


THE SILKEN SCARF 


merits. Always she had been used to admira¬ 
tion. It was not long before the whole country¬ 
side was bristling with speculation over her 
friendship with John Egerton. Then it was 
Miss Hilliard had ventured to give Benjamin a 
hint. He had answered her with simple dignity. 

“I can trust my wife, Augusta.” 

That closed the subject effectually, she did 
not dare warn him again. But with such a wife 
and such a husband the inevitable happened. 
Vivien ran away. Benjamin was left with his 
baby boy. 

That was a dark time in the old Four Chimney 
House. The world saw little of its owner. But 
at last by degrees he took up his old place. To 
everybody’s surprise he had not become embit¬ 
tered. Blame he had, but it was for himself. 
It was his fault, he should have taken better 
care of Vivien. Now all his hopes centred 
round his son; gay, impulsive, brilliant, he was 
very like his mother. At twenty he passed with 
honours into the Indian Civil Service. Six 
months later he died of typhoid fever. After 
that, grief reigned again for many a year 
in the Four Chimney House. But it could not 
kill Benjamin’s fine spirit; again he won the vic¬ 
tory. To the end of his days sorrow would 
dwell in his heart, memories would creep out at 
dusk, causing his soul to quiver wfith the anguish 
of their touch, but life was not quite barren, 


THE SILKEN SCARF 55 

things were still worth while—though God alone 
knew how infinitely less. 

“Nobody ever saw so many cows in the dis¬ 
tance, and no cows had such long horns!” Miss 
Hillard was wont to say of Benjamin Carnegie. 
She had not always been bitter, not till the day 
when she heard of Benjamin’s engagement. 
Then Augusta Hillard lost some of her zest in 
life, she was roused from a dream. 

Certainly it v r as a “managing” dream. In 
it the Four Chimney House was metamorphosed 
beyond recognition; a respect for punctuality 
was inculcated into its master, meals were prop¬ 
erly cooked, the shabby upholstery was darned. 
But the dream of a managing woman is natur¬ 
ally managing. But what does that signify? 
The main thing is to have a dream. 

All that day Benjamin waited for Joan. He 
knew she would come to him. He was at tea 
when his old servant announced her. 

“Miss Joan to see you, sir.” 

“Ah, Joan!” He raised himself heavily 
from his chair, and spoke with his usual cheeri¬ 
ness. “You are just in time for tea. Another 
cup, please, Margaret.” 

Then as the door shut his voice changed. 

“Joan, my poor child!” He took both her 
hands in his. 

For a moment she looked mutely into his 
pitying face, then she sat down. 


m THE SILKEN SCARF 

He waited, wondering how best to begin. 
Then: 

“Do you ever read Thomas a Kempis, Joan?” 
he asked abruptly. 

“No.” She shook her head. Her eyes ques¬ 
tioned. She was used to his apparent irrele¬ 
vance. 

From the bookshelf he took a small volume. 
“Listen, Joan. ‘After winter followeth sum¬ 
mer, after night the day returneth, and after a 
tempest a great calm. , ” He read the lines 
slowly. “ ‘After night the day returneth,’ ” 
he repeated. He looked gravely at her. “That 
is my favourite quotation, Joan.” 

He walked to the window and stood there 
looking out. How many memories did he see 
trooping by, as he waited in silence with stooped 
shoulders, his brows furrowed? 

He came to the sofa and sat down. “I have 
lived a long time, dear, and I can say truthfully 
that I have never known it false—but one needs 
courage and faith.” 

“ ‘After night the day returneth!’ ” she 
burst out. ‘ ‘ Mr. Carnegie, how can that be true 
for me? What day can I ever find, when— 
when I am covered with—with disgrace—horri¬ 
ble disgrace—when ” She caught her 

breath painfully, the words failed her for a mo¬ 
ment. “Do you know why I did not come to you 
earlier in the day?” She gripped her hands 



THE SILKEN SCARF 


57 


together. “I waited till the men about the 
place went to tea—I felt that I could not look 
a creature in the face. This morning I did not 
dare leave my room—the servants—the ser¬ 
vants’’—the small hands tightened their grip 
on each other—“ah, the way they look at me—• 
as though they pitied me—pitied mel” The 
proud little head flung itself erect, then bowed 
again. “To think that I should be pitied by 
my own servants because—my—father—is—a— 
drunkard! ’ ’ The words were hideous, she 
shuddered. Then she broke out passionately: 
“And in face of all this misery you tell me that 
‘after night day retumeth.’ How can it!” 

He let her speak on. 

“Perhaps I should not feel quite so dreadful 
if he did not care for me, but he does. As you 
know, all my life he has petted me, he thinks 
nothing too good for me. And I”—she lifted 
miserable eyes to Mr. Carnegie’s grave face— 
“I am so bitterly ashamed of him sometimes— 
oh, I know it sounds awful, but it is the truth— 
I would rather that he lay dead before me than 
see him again as he—as he was last night. I 
see no end to the night; how can day return?” 

He took her little cold hand and stroked it. 
“Sometimes, dear, it happens that this world 
is but the night; we must wait till we reach the 
next before dawn breaks. But always we shall 
find summer.” 





58 


THE SILKEN SCARF 


Tears started to her eyes. “The next world 
means so little to me. It is so cold, so far 
away . 1 ’ 

“We make it so because we raise false bar¬ 
riers, 99 he said gently, “it is but a hair ’s-breadth 
from us. Joan, believe me, no being has yet 
been born into this world who will not find his 
summer—some time.” His homely features 
were beautified by the light of a great faith. 

She flung her arms round him. “Dear Mr. 
Carnegie, it has been winter so long for me. I 
am only twenty-three and often I feel quite 
old . 9 9 

He drew her closer. “Have courage, Joan. 
Your summer will come.” 

But she could not believe him. In the Valley 
of Shame the vision of Heaven is lost. 


CHAPTER IV 


The last meet of the season was at FelPs Court. 
Major Craig was just about to start. Kitty 
stood in the porch to see him off. 

He glanced regretfully at her. “Pity you 
won’t come, Kit, it’s a glorious morning. Time 
to change your mind yet—will you?” 

She shook her fluffy head. “I am tired of 
hunting.” She raised a hand to smooth the 
lapel of his pink coat and smiled into his eyes. 
“Do you know, Oliver, I am glad there’s only 
two months more leave, I want something 
fresh.” 

He laughed a little. “Always a new sensa¬ 
tion, Kit?” He studied her quickly changing 
expression. Then: “Sometimes I wonder do 
you ever tire of me ? ’ ’ 

“Oh, as to that—often and often!” she said 
promptly. Then she laughed outright at his 
crestfallen air. ‘‘ Silly old thing! ’ ’ Her plump 
white fingers touched his cheek lightly. “You 
are a rock—a good sensible rock of a husband 
that any woman would be glad to own! ” 

He stooped to flick a speck of dust from his 

boot; it gave him time to consider his wife’s 

59 


60 


THE SILKEN SCARF 


comment. He often had difficulty in following 
her nimble brain. 

“Sounds a bit dull, somehow, to be a rock?’’ 
He glanced ruefully at her. 

Inwardly she laughed at his discontented 
face. Aloud she said: “Of course, dear, you 
must admit you are not an exciting person, but 
I admit you have advantages. It’s a cheering 
thing, for instance, for a wave to know that 
whatever happens there’s a rock sitting high 
and dry on the beach waiting for it!” 

“My good Kitty, who is talking about 
waves ? ’ ’ He was a little annoyed at his failure 
to understand. 

“My good Oliver”—she mimicked his voice 
—“don’t be so painfully English!—what on 
earth possessed me to marry a Saxon? Aren’t 
we talking of rocks? Then why not also of 
waves?—first cousins, so to speak! I suppose 
you do grasp the fact that rocks are stationary? 
—waves are not. In this particular instance I 
happen to be the wave—now, do you see?” 

Her meaning dawned on him. He shot a 
half-ashamed glance at her; he was as much in 
love with her now as when he married her ten 
years ago. “Do you mean you are—er—rather 
glad sometimes that I am there—in the back¬ 
ground? Is that it, Kit?” 

With dancing eyes she watched him strike a 
match, nurse the flame carefully in the palm of 




THE SILKEN SCARF 


61 


his hand, and stoop to light a cigarette. The 
tall, gaunt figure gave the impression of having 
been pitchforked together. 

“Oliver! You grow positively brilliant.” 

Then as the red crept up the back of his neck 
—he hated being laughed at—she repented her¬ 
self. The brown eyes softened. Seizing his 
hand she squeezed it. “Silly! Of course I am 
glad—often—to get back to my dear—dull— 
sensible old rock!” 

The Midget had been engaged in jumping 
with stout feet pressed close together, from 
steps to gravel, from gravel to steps. She 
turned at the moment when Mrs. Craig took her 
husband’s hand. Advancing, she surveyed her 
parents inquisitively. She was bom with a 
thirst for information. 

“Mummy, why are you shaking hands with 
daddy?” 

“Because I love daddy,” said Mrs. Craig. 
The fingers clasping hers suddenly tightened 
their hold. She blushed a little and exchanged 
a swift glance with her husband. 

“M—mm!” The Midget considered. “Then 
do Joan and Dickie love each other?” she de¬ 
manded. “ ’Cos yesterday I was in the garden, 
and Dickie and Joan were there too, and Dickie 
took Joan’s hand in a hurry—just like you took 
daddy’s—and he kissed it! ” She gave a squeal 
of laughter. ‘ ‘ Silly baby things! I don’t think 



62 


THE SILKEN SCARF 


Joan liked it, ’cos she took away her hand in a 
hurry! Dear me, grown-up people are funny! ’ ’ 
She gave another of her quaint affected laughs. 

“One— two! One— two!” She had returned 
to her calisthenics. The “two” came with a 
pant as the portly body landed on the gravel. 
She paused, struck by an idea, then tossed her 
head over her shoulder. 

“Mummy, p’raps Dickie loves Joan, and Joan 
doesn’t love Dickie? 

“I love Dickie! I love Joan!” she chanted, 
again engrossed with her game. 

Major and Mrs. Craig exchanged glances. 

“Will she ever care for him, Kit?” he 
asked in an undertone. 

Kitty shook her head. “Not to marry # him.” 

“ ’Tis a pity. She’d make a man of him.” 
He gathered up the reins. 

“Joan’s not that sort. She’d want a man 
ready made,” observed his wife dryly. She 
moved back a pace. 

“She might do worse than try—Dickie’s an 
awfully good sort, but he wants ballast.” 

Kitty’s eyes twinkled. 

“I always think St. Paul put the shoe on the 
wrong foot in the matter of the weaker vessel. 
Half the women I know spend most of their time 
in making men of their husbands. Good-bye, 
Oliver. Praise the saints you are a rock. If 





THE SILKEN SCARF 63 

you hadn’t been, I would never have looked at 
you! ’’ 

With hands raised to shade her eyes she 
waited till the last glimpse of his pink coat van¬ 
ished down the lane. 

“Come and help mummy in the garden, Mid¬ 
get,” she said. 

The rooks were making a delicious babel in 
the belt of the pines. The soothing rhythm of 
the mowing-machine burred from the lawn. 
Homely sounds travelled lazily from the poul¬ 
try-yard. The air was filled with a warm smell 
of everything and of nothing in particular. It 
w^as a peaceful, slumbrous day, when disaster 
was an incomprehensible thing. 

“Midget,” Mrs. Craig announced suddenly, 
flinging down her gardening tools, “I am going 
to drive over to Butlerstown. I want to see 
Joan.” 

The Midget, her face scarlet with the exertion 
of uprooting dandelions, looked questioningly 
at her. 

“Why do you want to see her, mummy?” 

“I don’t know,” said Mrs. Craig truthfully, 
“but I know that I must.” 

Afterwards she could never account for the 
premonition which urged her to go without de¬ 
lay to Joan. 


CHAPTER V 


At FelPs Court the dogs reigned supreme. 

They were friendly, all of them. Invariably 
the arriving guest was greeted by a group, tails 
wagging slowly, red tongues lolling, stretched 
hospitably at the head of the broad flight of 
steps which led to the house. A peep inside 
the hall revealed sundry other stumpy tails 
beating the floor in similar leisurely welcome— 
at FelPs Court the front door was never shut 
except at night. In the dining-room as a mat¬ 
ter of course the dogs occupied the most com¬ 
fortable chairs. They were welcome visitors in 
the kitchen, only in the drawing-room one did 
not find them. But then neither did one find the 
master of the house there. 

Mrs. Craig often assured Dickie it was his 
duty to marry for the sake of his drawing-room. 
It had the ‘‘noble proportions” dear to the 
heart of the house agent; the ceiling was beauti¬ 
fully frescoed; the four lofty windows reached 
to within a few inches of the floor. But the 
furniture made Kitty shudder. A wife, she told 
O’Donoghue, would have no twinge of con¬ 
science in consigning the lot to the nearest dust- 

64 


THE SILKEN SCARF 


65 


heap—the deceitfully named easy chairs, the 
gorgeously flowered carpet, the wax fruit lurk¬ 
ing under glass hells, the alabaster figures. 

But to old Mrs. Lehane, the housekeeper, all 
these treasures having belonged to the “owld 
misthress” were objects for veneration. No 
hands but hers were permitted to dust the pre¬ 
cious 4 4 ornaments. ’ ’ The lowering of the blinds 
to protect the rose-splashed carpet from injury 
by the morning sun was a ceremony. The 
drawing-room w T as a shrine to her. Nothing 
would induce Dickie to deprive her of it. Why 
should he? he demanded of Mrs. Craig, when 
she implored him to get rid of the “ atrocities. ” 
He had plenty of other rooms to sit in, and since 
old Lehane had a fancy for this particular one, 
why on earth shouldn’t she gratify it. 

0 ’Donoghue was very hospitable—the break¬ 
fast this morning had been a big one. Indeed 
so fully occupied had Mrs. Lehane been that she 
had to postpone attention to her beloved shrine 
till the afternoon. 

She retired there after lunch and, duster in 
hand, moved slowly about the room. 

She was fond of assuring her friends that 
“she was not so young as she was,” but that 
she was “quite ready to go.” This was not the 
exact truth. Her future was comfortably as¬ 
sured; she had few bodily ailments, and as few 
personal worries. Under such circumstances, 



66 


THE SILKEN SCARF 


although old age is approaching, the average 
person is in no hurry to die. 

She shook her duster lightly from the 
window. 

The unfortunate part of long being in com¬ 
mand is that you are always looking for faults. 
Eventually perpetual criticism kills the capa¬ 
bility of complete enjoyment. So now it hap¬ 
pened that Mrs. Lehane, instead of permitting 
herself to admire the beautiful symmetry of the 
bank which sloped down to the lawn at either 
side of the wide flight of steps, looked on the 
steps themselves and there beheld twelve 
pebbles. She counted them indignantly. How 
careless of Bridget! Her hand was on the bell 
to ring for the neglectful kitchen-maid when 
there was a wild stampede from the hall. She 
paused. That was strange. The dogs seldom 
disturbed themselves to such an extent for any 
arrival but the “masther’s.” She glanced at 
the clock—it was quite early, he couldn’t be 
coming back yet? She went to*the window and 
looked out. 

Round the bend of the avenue nearly half a 
mile away a little crowd of people were ap¬ 
proaching slowly. Mrs. Lehane pushed the 
window wide open and peered inquisitively 
from it. In the middle of the group four men 
were carrying something. Her heart began to 
beat uncomfortably fast. What was it? With 


THE SILKEN SCARF 67 

✓ 

more speed than she could have believed pos¬ 
sible she found herself at the door in the hall 
that led to the servants’ quarters. 

“Ellen! fetch me my glasses, quick!” she 
called. 

Her fingers shook when she put them on. She 
had seen so many changes in the house—was 
there about to be another? To her it seemed 
but yesterday since old Mr. O’Donoghue had 
died, yet eight years had gone by since then— 
eight years since the “young masther” had 
come into his own. She wiped her glasses. He 
was known all over the county as a reckless 
rider—if anything happened to him! 

I think that those who have reached the next 
world must sometimes laugh softly together— 
much as we grown-ups laugh at the children’s 
folly—remembering that mysterious phrase, 
“Should anything happen.” “Anything hap¬ 
pen!” when the one thing that can happen is 
that we shall see clearly instead of dimly. 

A very human dread sprang to the old 
woman’s mind. Would the next owner of Fell’s 
Court—a distant cousin of Dickie’s—keep her 
on? She loved every stick and stone of the 
place, it would break her heart to leave it. Then 
in the immediate need for action she forgot her¬ 
self. The little crowd was fast nearing. The 
next moment the household had leaped to bustle. 
Hot-water bottles were ready, the brandy put 


68 


THE SILKEN SCARF 


out; a stable boy was dispatched hot haste for 
the doctor. At the head of the tall flight of steps 
Mrs. Lehane waited. Beyond her stretched 
a tail of frightened servants. 

Tramp! Tramp! came the tread of feet. 

Mrs. Lehane shut her eyes, she was afraid to 
look. 

Tramp! Tramp! Now they came up the 
steps. Her heart stopped beating. 

“Mrs. Lehane!” 

It was Dickie. In her relief she could have 
fallen on her knees. She glanced round. On 
the couch in the hall the men w T ere laying rever¬ 
ently a figure. It did not stir. Who was it? 

“Mr. Butler—he was thrown at the ditch just 
beyond Leary’s Cross” — O’Donoghue was 
speaking in abrupt sentences—“all over, I am 
afraid. See that everything is right—Major 
Craig will give directions—I must go at once to 
Butlerstown.” 

• ••••• 

O’Donoghue had come and gone. 

Joan stood in the room where one night but 
a fortnight ago she had wept in bitterest hu¬ 
miliation. 

Mrs. Craig was with her. Her pretty face 
was white and awestruck. She w T as speechless. 
Any sympathy that she could offer must be con¬ 
ventional. Could she say truthfully that she 
was grieved? For months it had been an open 


THE SILKEN SCARF 


69 


secret that Robert Butler was drinking himself 
to death, the strain was killing Joan—yet his 
end was appallingly sudden. 

1 ( Kitty ! 9 9 

“Yes, dear?” She started, Joan spoke so 
abruptly. 

“Don’t think that—that this is a shock to me. 
I believe I knew it. Do you remember that aft¬ 
ernoon when we went to the garden—the after¬ 
noon of the ball?” 

Mrs. Craig nodded. 

“I had a premonition-” She paused to 

steady her voice. Kitty shivered. That epi¬ 
sode, although it occurred in the full March sun¬ 
light, had been uncanny. “I saw,” Joan con¬ 
tinued slowly, “or thought I saw—father lying 
dead before me.” 

Suddenly her composure broke down. She 
held out both hands to Mrs. Craig. “Kitty! I 
am frightened—frightened of myself! It is 
horrible—but I cannot wish him back—I 
cannot!” 

Poor Mrs. Craig cried over her. Life was 
very complicated. Neither could she wish Rob¬ 
ert Butler back, but she could not bear to hear 
Joan say it. 



CHAPTER VI 


One morning three months later Mrs. Craig 
drove over to Butlerstown. She found Joan in 
the garden. 

‘ ‘Joan, I have news. Oliver’s orders came 
last night, his regiment goes to Malta. ’ ’ 

Joan dropped her trowel in dismay. 6 ‘ Malta! 
Kitty, how I shall miss you!” 

“Why shouldn’t you come with us?” Mrs. 
Craig responded promptly. “The change would 
he good for you. Z>o, Joan.” 

The colour came and went in Joan’s face; 
she hesitated. “I should love it, Kitty,” she 
said at length, “hut I should be only a wet 
blanket. I feel as though I never wanted to 
speak to anybody again.” 

With a wave of her hand Kitty swept her 
objections to one side. “You can see people or 
not, just as you like, only come! Let’s fix it 
up this very minute! ’ ’ she added impulsively. 

“You are absolutely certain I shan’t depress 
you?” Joan asked, but her eyes brightened at 
the possibility of escaping for a time from 
Butlerstown and its unhappy memories. 

‘ ‘ Absolute-ly! ’ ’ Kitty laughed. She seized 

Joan’s arms and seesawed them gaily. Then 

70 



THE SILKEN SCARF 


71 


her mood changed, her face sobered. i ‘Don’t 
you understand how I shall love trying to make 
you forget I” 

Joan’s face hardened. How difficult it was 
to forgive. Since she had come to woman’s 
estate the years had brought her scant happi¬ 
ness. Remembrance stung her to bitterness. 

“I can’t forget—I can’t forgive. Kitty, do 
you hate me?” 

“No, dear, but—but-t”—when she was agi¬ 
tated she always stuttered a little—“I do-on’t 
often speak of these t-things, Joan, but I have 
a feeling t-that there is no rest for the d-dead 
if the people they c-care for on earth keep any 
b-bitterness in their hearts towards t-them. 
Joan,” she said earnestly, “you must forget.” 

“I don’t think I ever shall,” Joan answered 
sadly. 

“You have been brooding too long; you need 
a change of scene, change of everything. Come 
out with us, Joan.” 

A genius in gaining her point is a not infre¬ 
quent characteristic of the small fluffy-haired 
woman. Mrs. Craig did not leave the garden 
till she had gained hers. 

As she drove down the long avenue she met 
0 ’Donoghue. She pulled up the pony. 

“Orders have come for Malta, Dickie.” 

“Malta! By Jove!” He studied her re¬ 
flectively. 


72 


THE SILKEN SCARF 


Remembrance of bis three years’ stay at 
Malta crystallised round one March afternoon 
when the sun had blazed fiercely from a sky 
without a cloud, when the air reeked of garlic, 
when the silence of a cool, incense-fringed 
church had of a sudden throbbed with inarticu¬ 
late sound. 

“To Malta, by Jove!” he repeated. “Years 
ago I was pals with a man out there, Anthony 
Fenwick, the best sort in the world. I’ll write 
and tell him to look you up. Funny thing, he 
owns a lot of orange groves. Oh, he’s English, 
right enough; there was an intermarriage 
some time far back, the oranges came with it. 
Fenwick contrives to make a jolly good thing 
out of them.” He rested his arms on the rail 
of the governess-cart and looked up at Kitty, 
a smile on his pleasant face. “Won’t the 
Midget love picking her own oranges, what?” 

“Oranges! Oh yes, of course she’ll love it,” 
said Mrs. Craig absently; she was revolving 
something in her mind. “Joan is coming to 
us for the winter.” The lash of the whip 
suddenly engrossed her entire attention. 

Dickie jerked himself straight. “How long 
does the winter mean?” he asked after a pause. 
“Two months? three?” 

“Six, I hope.” She was careful to avoid 
meeting his eye. 


THE SILKEN SCARF 73 

Another pause. Finally Mrs. Craig gathered 
up the reins preparatory to departure. 

He thrust out his hand and took them from 
her. 

“Look here, Kitty, tell me something, will 
your’ he blurted out. His face was scarlet. 
“Have I any chance at all with Joan? She’s 
going where she’ll meet tons of men—damn 
’em!—(beg your pardon, Kitty)—most of ’em 
a long sight better than me—and if she’s to be 
away all that time, I’d like to have a shot first, 
eh, w T hat?” He pulled oft his cap and wiped 
his forehead. 

“Dickie!” Kitty seized his hand and 
squeezed it. “She won’t meet anybody one 
quarter—no, not one half so nice as you”— 
she bent a little nearer and gently stroked his 
coat with her free hand—“but there is—no 
chance for you. Dickie, you must not hope it, 
even for an instant.” 

The browm. eyes were blinking fast. He 
smiled at Mrs. Craig. “Thanks avdully, Kitty, 
awfully decent of you to tell me straight. Of 
course I am not good enough for her—hard to 
find anybody who is, eh, what? Well, you are 
oft ?” He tried to speak in his usual gay fash¬ 
ion. “As I have come so far, I think I’ll just 
toddle along to the garden for a minute or 
two.” 


74 THE SILKEN SCARF 

Mrs. Craig shook her head and drove home. 

• • • • • • • 

He had no difficulty in finding Joan. Kitty 
had left the garden gate open behind her. 

She was standing at a gap in the wall, her 
arms resting on the low brickwork, watching 
the river. She turned brusquely at the sound 
of footsteps, then smiled. 

“Dickie! it is only you! I was afraid they 
had sent callers from the house. Isn’t the 
water lovely to-day?” She turned back to the 
wall. 

His eyes riveted on her delicate profile. 
“Joan, why do you leave it!” he demanded 
abruptly. “Kitty told me just now about this 
Malta scheme,” he explained, in answer to her 
unspoken question. “What’s taking you there, 
Joan? It’s a rotten hole.” He kicked a pebble 
savagely and glanced again at her. “Anyhow, 
you’ll be back in the spring?” Then as she 
hesitated, he added blankly: “You will, won’t 
you ?’ ’ 

Her forehead was wrinkled. “I was won¬ 
dering, Dickie,” she said slowly, “if I couldn’t 
let the place for a few years.” 

‘ ‘ Let it! ” he said in dismay. i ‘ Why on earth 
should you let it ? ” 

“It hurts me,” she said under her breath. 
“Perhaps if I stayed away long enough I 
might forget.” 


THE SILKEN SCARF 


75 


To go away for a few years! How could he 
let her go without at least making an effort to 
keep her? He forgot Kitty’s warning. . 

“ Joan, look here, it’s all rot, you know. You 
can’t go aw T ay like that. Don’t go, dear ! 9 9 The 
perspiration stood on his forehead. His hand 
fumbled at her w T rist. 

She drew back hastily. “ Please, Dickie— 
please don’t say any more.” 

But it w T as too late. He felt this was his 
last chance. He w T as a little desperate. 

‘ 4 Joan, couldn’t you manage to—to like me 
a little—ever so little, dear—I wouldn’t ask 
much—couldn’t you, Joan?” 

“Oh, Dickie, I am so—so dreadfully sorry,” 
she began. 

He stopped her. Reaching out his hand he 
seized hers and held it fast. “Joan, can’t you? 
I know I am a slacker and all that, but I ’ll work 
up the property—I’ll do any mortal thing you 
like. Joan?” 

Why couldn’t he accept refusal? She pulled 
her hand away. A note of impatience sounded 
in her voice. 

“Dickie, can’t you see it is impossible? You 

are my friend-” her voice softened. What 

a good friend he was! “My very dear 
friend.” 

There was a pause. She glanced at him. 
The misery in his eyes touched her. She laid 




76 


THE SILKEN SCARE 


lier hand gently on his arm. “ Please, Dickie, 
don’t mind so horribly. ’ ’ 

The cool touch of her fingers fired him. He 
seized them and crushed them. 

‘ 4 Joan, I’d sell my soul to get you!” 

“Don’t!” she said sharply. “Don’t talk of 
selling souls. It frightens me.” 

Stubbornly he repeated his words. “I would 
sell my immortal soul to get you. I would take 
my chance in the next world if only I could have 
you in this—body and soul—body and soul!” 
he added under his breath. 

She heard and she looked miserably away. 

There was a long silence. It was broken by 
a faint frenzied tapping. A butterfly had im¬ 
prisoned itself in the cucumber frame near by. 
It was hurling its delicate wings against the 
glass. 

Dickie turned and opened the lid. The but¬ 
terfly flew out. 

Joan watched him. What a good sort he 
was! “Dickie, you are the kindest being that 
ever breathed, ’ ’ she said. Her lips were 
twisted crookedly upwards in the adorable 
fashion which always sent his pulses tingling. 

Hungrily he caught at the smile. 

“Is it utterly hopeless, Joan—utterly V 9 

“Quite, Dickie.” He glanced at her. Her 
eyes were filled with tears. “Quite,” she 
whispered. 


THE SILKEN SCARF 77 

He turned abruptly and stood staring across 
the river. 

She watched him miserably. Were his 
shoulders heaving? She could not bear that. 

“Good-bye, Dickie.” Her hand lay a second 
on his arm, then she slipped out of the garden. 
O’Donoghue’s dogs were waiting for him out¬ 
side the gate. One of them, a rough-haired 
Irish terrier, looked at her, and Joan fancied 
his eyes were reproachful, as if he knew she 
had hurt his master. She sighed. She hated 
hurting him. 

The dogs had to wait a considerable time 
longer for Dickie. Finally he came whistling 
a tune. But they were not in the least deceived 
by his assumption of cheeriness. They knew 
something was wrong. Dejected they followed 
close to his heels along the deserted road. 

“I’d sell my immortal soul to get her!” 

Round the sharp twist of the road he came • 
face to face with Miss Hilliard. Not till he 
saw the expression on her face did he realise 
that he had spoken his thoughts aloud. 

She made no pretence of not having heard. 
Pulling up, she barred his way peremptorily. 
“It would be more to the point,” she remarked, 
“if you left the barter of your soul out of the 
question and attended to your tenants—per¬ 
haps in that case it might count something to 
its credit. I have just heard from old Mrs. 


78 


THE SILKEN SCARF 


Corkery that last night the rain poured right 
in on her bed.” 

“Really? I’m frightfully sorry. Ill get 
Buckley to see to it. It will be all right, Miss 
Hilliard, don’t worry.” 

He tried to pass, but when she washed to 
detain, few^ people were sufficiently astute to 
dodge Augusta Hilliard. - j 

“It will not be all right,” she said firmly. 
“Dickie, I am tired of telling you that that man 
is playing on you. More, he is robbing you, 
right, left, and centre and nothing gets done. 
For heaven’s sake, get rid of him and see to 
things yourself.” 

“Honour bright, I’ll see that the roof is 
mended!” Secretly he wished her in Hong- 
Kong, but he smiled pleasantly at her. It was 
impossible for him to be curt to a woman. 

“To-morrow it shall be seen to!” With 
strategy he contrived to pass her. 

“To-morrow? And why not to-day?” she 
demanded indignantly. But already he was 
almost out of earshot. 

“Pie-crust promises!” she murmured angrily 
as she walked on. “That roof won’t be mended 
by Christmas!” 

She turned at the sound of hurrying steps. 
Breathless, O’Donoghue held out his hand; in 
it was a bank-note. “Will you give that to 


THE SILKEN SCARF 79 

the old Corkery woman, please, and tell her I 
am sorry she was put to inconvenience ? ’’ 

He had gone in a flash. She had not time to 
thank him. She pocketed the money grimly. 
How typical that was of Dickie. It was nothing 
to him to give money—trouble was what he 

grudged. And yet- Her tight lips relaxed. 

No woman found it possible to harbour wrath 
for long against O’Donoghue. 

She spared a moment to drop in at the Four 
Chimneys. “Dickie has proposed, and Joan 
has refused him,’ ’ she announced briefly to Mr. 
Carnegie. 

“Who told you?” he asked eagerly. 

She instantly assumed the belittling air of 
the deductive one towards the dullard who 
depends on mere words for information. 

“Nobody told me,” she said witheringly, 
“but I am not quite a fool—you have heard me 
say so many times, Benjamin, and when I meet 
a man walking along the public road with two 
eyes like lobsters, and talking to himself about 
his immortal soul—pish!”—she tossed her 
head with an uncompromising snort—“I know 
it can mean only one of three things. 

“And what are they?” he asked warily. 

“Drink—money—or disappointment about a 
woman,” she said with scorn. “Dickie doesn’t 
drink, neither does he need money, so—I draw 
my own conclusions!” 



CHAPTER VII 


Frankly, Mrs. Craig was bored to tears. 

Before leaving for Malta she and Oliver were 
paying a fortnight ’s visit to an old cousin living 
at Ealing. Joan had come too for a few 
days. 

Of any London suburb Ealing breathes most 
fully the elegant—the quiet—the exclusive— 
the consciously exclusive. The distilled essence 
of the ‘ 4 retired ’ 1 exudes from it. It may be 
the force of contrast with more adventurous 
days that attracts to it so many elderly naval 
and military people. One would experience no 
real shock of surprise if on emerging one fine 
morning from the railway station one found 
the cab-rank by the green superseded by a row r 
of sedan chairs. It needs a really powerful 
imagination to picture anything very wicked, 
very exciting, very unconventional, happening 
in ladylike Ealing. 

Three days of its narcotic influence and Kitty 
accepted with alacrity an invitation to tea—a 
function which her out-of-doors soul usually 
abhorred. 

When she returned she found Joan standing 

80 



THE SILKEN SCARF 


81 


by her bedroom window. Mrs. Craig was some¬ 
what excited. 

“Joan!” she burst into her room. “Mrs. 
Loring wants us to go to a spiritualistic seance 
one afternoon next w T eek—at some place near 
Fleet Street. Do come, it will be fun!” 

Joan did not answer at once. She looked 
down thoughtfully at the trim, pleasurable 
garden—that is, if a garden can be both trim 
and pleasurable. This particular one subtly 
conveyed the impression of an old maid’s best 
parlour tricked out for “company,” so shaven 
was the grass, so smooth the gravelled paths, 
so scrupulously weeded the beds. 

“I don’t much like the idea of dabbling in 
spiritualism, Kitty,” she said at length. 

Mrs. Craig frowned. She removed her hat 
and veil, and carefully folded the latter. She 
made a point of treating her clothes with 
respect. 

“Joan dear,” she crossed the room and shook 
her cousin affectionately, “you must break 
yourself of the habit of being always in 
deadly earnest ! I am not going to dabble in 
anything; I just want to be thrilled. Why 
can’t you come and be thrilled too ? ’ ’ 

Joan drummed her fingers on the window- 
pane. She did not join in Kitty’s laugh. 
Fresh in her memory was that strange experi¬ 
ence in the garden at Butlerstown. She could 


82 


THE SILKEN SCARF 


still recall the horror of being transported to 
illimitable space that throbbed with impending 
disaster. How account for that moment? 

Here was a possible opportunity of partly 
satisfying her curiosity. She crushed down her 
scruples and promised Kitty to accompany her. 

At the last moment Mrs. Loring cried off, so 
Mrs. Craig and Joan had to go alone. 

They found themselves in one of the many 
quiet byways that lie but a few yards from the 
roar of Ludgate Circus. In the dusty hall a 
brass plate hung. 

Kitty ’s eyebrows ran up as she studied it. 
‘‘Quaint!” she laughed. “Listen, Joan! All 
sorts and conditions—‘ Typists’ First Floor— 
4 Life Insurance’ Second—‘Literary Agents’ 
Third—‘Spiritualistic Society’ Fourth. What 
a medley! ’ ’ 

Joan glanced round. She was vaguely aware 
of a conflicting atmosphere. Most houses ten¬ 
anted by people of diverse callings hold such 
an atmosphere. 

“Last door on the left.” An anaemic boy 
directed them. 

Kitty walked warily; floor and walls were 
alike dusty. From either side of the passage 
came the click of type-writing machines, a hum 
of voices. She grinned suddenly at Joan. “I 
notice the spiritualists take good care to keep 
their thrills and all the rest of the bag of tricks 


THE SILKEN SCARF 


83 


to their own quarters. Could anything be more 
uninspiring ?’ ’ 

‘ 6 Good gracious, is this itV* she murmured 
the next minute as they came into an entirely 
commonplace room, holding superficially as 
little kinship to mystery as does a Sunday- 
school to a danseuse. Instead of the dimness 
that Mrs. Craig had expected to find, the light 
streamed in unhindered through four tall win¬ 
dows. There were no cabinets with suggestive 
hangings, no curtained recesses, the popular 
conception of the mystic surroundings of the 
occult was entirely at fault. There was a 
slightly elevated platform at one end of the 
room, the remainder of the floor space was filled 
with precise rows of chairs. A prayer meeting 
might have been about to begin. 

In quaintly indignant astonishment Kitty 
studied the audience. Dispelled was her con¬ 
ventional idea of the spiritualist as a wild-eyed 
cadaverous individual. The people, waiting 
quietly expectant, were of a very ordinary type, 
such as one might well find in any bus or tube. 

Punctual to a second the medium took her 
place on the platform. She was a dowdy, little, 
greyish woman of indefinite age; she lacked 
anything distinctive. 

She began to speak—now she was one of the 
crowd no longer. 

Joan sat suddenly alert. Here in this com- 


84 


THE SILKEN SCARF 


monplace room, filled with commonplace people, 
while the hot August sun streamed in through 
gaunt, unshaded windows, a little insignificant 
woman, one hand resting lightly on the table, 
her body slightly bent forwards, was speaking 
of communicating with the dead, not as a pos¬ 
sibility—some mystic dream of the future—but 
as an acknowledged thing, an event of everyday 
occurrence. About her lay the sincerity of con¬ 
viction; there was no exaggeration of word or 
gesture, the strength of her assertion lay in its 
simplicity. 

What impression was she making on the audi¬ 
ence? Joan leant forwards the better to study 
their faces. They were all poised, enthralled, 
eager; tears stood in the eyes of a young girl 
near; a seat or two away she saw a woman’s 
hands twitch. But although not one person 
remained unmoved, it was perfectly plain that 
to all these people the idea of communication 
with the dead was a familiar one. 

The medium stopped speaking. In the tense 
silence Joan watched her fascinated. One hand 
was pressed against her forehead, her lips were 
firmly set. She was gathering fresh forces. A 
pin might have been heard to fall. 

The hand dropped, the lips relaxed, again 
she leant forwards and studied the faces before 
her. The room breathed again. At haphazard 


THE SILKEN SCARF 


85 


she spoke to one here and there. The young 
girl near Joan had been selected. 

“You had a loss recently—your lover, I 
think.” She paused and pressed her hand to 
her forehead. 

Joan looked at the girl; her face was quiv¬ 
ering, there was a light in her eyes. Silently 
she besought the medium to continue. 

“He will not forget you,” said the quiet 
voice. 

The girl’s hands opened, raised in a sudden 
frenzy of pleading, then met and gripped. 

“He is very near you—nearer than you 
imagine.” The level voice ceased, a tremor ran 
through the room, people moved slightly in 
their seats. 

Joan glanced up at one of the gaunt win¬ 
dows ; the sun still streamed in. She shivered 
a little. How near were the departed to the 
living? Then her eyes wandered to the girl. 
She sat, her face buried in her hands. Was she 
really in communication with her dead? Joan 
shaded her eyes, the hot sunlight was incon¬ 
gruous. 

“It is all rubbish,” Kitty was whispering in 
her ear, “she saw the deep mourning—only a 
grain of imagination was needed to fill in the 
rest.” 

Joan shook her head. She knew it was not 


86 


THE SILKEN SCARF 


rubbish. She was acutely conscious that this 
dowdy, greyish, little woman was absolutely 
sincere; she saw things in this room that no¬ 
body else could see. She shivered again. She 
was one part fascinated, one part repulsed, per¬ 
haps all the more strongly because the proceed¬ 
ings were conducted in an atmosphere so 
commonplace that it actually suggested a pose. 

“Kitty-” She was just about to ask 

Mrs. Craig to come aw T ay when the medium 
suddenly addressed her: 

“You too have had recent bereavement—you 
in the third seat of the sixth row”—she empha¬ 
sised her steady gaze at Joan by a wave of her 
hand—“but you are not grieving for w T hat the 
world calls death. Your sorrow is shame for 
another, for one w T ho has passed over-” 

Then an extraordinary thing happened to 
Joan. Kitty, the room, the medium, faded 
away. Again, as she had once experienced in 
the Butlerstown garden, she was in space; in 
some inexplicable fashion she was outside of 
herself. Then shapes began to loom dimly— 
now they were taking form. Wild with terror 
she struggled—she must wake! More shadows 
crossed that terrifying space—they came near 
to her- 

She tried to scream, but no sound came 
through her lips. In that horrifying space— 
which yet was no space—they closed round her. 






THE SILKEN SCARF 


87 


Oh, for the power to scream, to break this hor¬ 
rible spell!—but her lips were sealed, not by so 
much as a finger could she move. And closer, 
ever closer, the shadows hemmed her in. 

The horror of it! Was she dead? Was she 
chained in some dim antechamber before pass¬ 
ing to the other world? But she did not want 
to go—she was not ready—she must get back 
to the world of sight and sound—she must!— 
she must! - 

With a supreme effort she burst through the 
bonds of impalpability! Thank God, the night¬ 
mare had passed. 

She opened her eyes. The medium was 
standing by her, watching curiously. Kitty, 
her pretty face flushed with distress, bent over 
her. 

41 Joan, are you better? you fainted, I suppose 
it was the heat?” 

The warm, human touch was reassuring. 
Joan held her hand close, then she struggled to 
her feet. 

“Kitty, let us go at once —at once!” she 
repeated. 

This bare room, lving in the full glare of sun¬ 
light, was but masquerading in the guise of 
the commonplace; in reality some mysterious 
agency dominated it, whether for good or evil 
she did not know. She had but one desire—to 
escape from its terrifying grip. 




88 


THE SILKEN SCARF 


At the door she started nervously; a light 
touch fell on her arm. It was the medium. 
Her large pale eyes met Joan’s, they seemed to 
read into her soul. 

“Trances are not altogether unknown to 
you?” she said in a low tone. “You are very 
psychic. I could help you to develop the powers 
you possess. Will you come to me again?” 

Joan hesitated. What were these mysterious 
powers? Why should she not develop them? 
The suggestion fascinated. Would it not lend 
a new interest to life? She was on the point 
of making a future appointment when she was 
suddenly seized by a violent revulsion of feel¬ 
ing. The medium’s tense gaze still held her, 
compelling. With an effort she averted her 1 
eyes and hurried to the door. In her haste to 
be gone she pushed Kitty through it. Then 
she turned to find the medium’s quiet eyes 
watching her. 

“Perhaps I’ll come—I don’t know—I must 
think. ’ ’ 

• • • • •' m 

They were back at Ludgate Circus. Life 
surged by ceaselessly, thunderously. Joan 
neither saw nor heard. She was still under 
the spell of the quiet room where the August 
sun streamed unchecked through four tall 
windows. 




CHAPTER VIII 

Christmas had come and gone—a Christmas 
where turkeys and plum-puddings intruded 
themselves on blue skies and glorious sunshine 
as unseasonably as a guest attired in winter 
raiment attending a June fete. 

The magnetic influence of the South had 
begun to work its spell on Joan, dispelling the 
cloud of humiliation which had so long hung 
round her. 

In addition she had been helped by the 
delightful atmosphere of the Craig menage. 
To be the Craigs’ guest was to find oneself 
instantly regarded as “one of the family.” 
This status in most houses is for the honoured 
guest one chiefly of disadvantage. Being con¬ 
sidered “one of the family” so often implies 
the withdrawal of a veil from much domestic 
pettiness which is distinctly embarrassing! But 
domesticity as expounded by Kitty was wholly 
charming. Nobody ever felt “in the way” 
with her. No guest in her house entering a 
room unexpectedly experienced the unpleasant 
sensation of falling on a sudden hush in the 

conversation. Kitty never made a secret of her 

89 


90 


THE SILKEN SCARF 


affairs; on the contrary she gave the impres¬ 
sion of being delighted to discuss them with 
you, if you were kind enough to be interested. 
And she had the heaven-sent gift of proportion; 
she refused to fret over trifles. If a servant 
difficulty arose, she was still serene, probably 
being of the opinion of Epictetus that ‘ ‘ ’tis 
better your servant should be bad than you 
unhappy.’ ’ 

Then too the Midget was an inspiring person; 
life was of absorbing interest to her. Joan’s 
heart could not fail to be warmed when she 
was enfolded by the child’s sturdy arms and 
assured in the Midget’s deep voice that she was 
like “a lovely white queen,” and that she always 
prayed for her “after mummy and daddy”— 
when she didn’t forget. 

The house the Craigs had taken stood at the 
foot of the rock on the brow of which stands 
the Naval Hospital, that colossal building 
which commands a limitless view of the Medi¬ 
terranean and which Napoleon erected, his 
child of arrogant dreams. A balcony overhang¬ 
ing a landing-slip ran along the front of the 
green-shuttered house. 

Many and varied were the freights deposited 
here. Servants visiting the early markets came 
with laden baskets; Maltese women, shrouded 
in the mystery of the faldetta, slipped silent 
shadows up the steep steps; sick men from the 


THE SILKEN SCARF 


91 


ships were borne on stretchers to the hospital. 
Sometimes there were other burdens—burdens 
that lay still, while men bore them reverently 
to the little cemetery planted on the crest of 
the hill. 

One morning after breakfast Joan and Kitty 
stood together on the balcony. It was exactly 
a year since Mr. Butler’s death and Kitty felt 
that the time had come for Joan to break 
through her isolation. They had been discuss¬ 
ing the frock Mrs. Craig was to wear at the 
Palace Fancy Ball. There was a pause, then 
suddenly Kitty spoke: ‘ ‘ Joan, you’ll come too, 
won’t you?” 

Joan shook her head, touching her black frock 
lightly. But Mrs. Craig persisted. “ What does 
that matter? Joan, you have been happier 
lately.” She glanced at Joan’s frock. “After 
all, mourning is merely convention. I feel it is 
time for you to throw it aside.” 

“Kitty,” Joan broke in indignantly, “it isn’t 
convention with me. I wear it”— she hesi¬ 
tated—“not for death, but for something that 
will hurt me to the end of my life.” 

Mrs. Craig’s plump fingers slid along the rail 
of the balcony till they found Joan’s. “I know, 
dear,” she said gently, “so many people’s 
mourning means just that. But you must not 
grow self-centred.” 

“Mummy!” the Midget’s robust voice burst 


92 


THE SILKEN SCARF 


in, “tell me is this right. ‘Dear Mr. Scott, 
thank yon so much for the lovely—the lovely—’ 
Oh, what was it, mummy! Was it the doll, or 
the work-basket, or the scent! Which did he 
send me?” 

The Midget had had a birthday, and was 
engaged in writing her acknowledgments. 

Mrs. Craig popped her head round the 
door. Her daughter gazed at her earnestly. 
“Mummy, I can’t think who gave me what,” 
she repeated. She sat at the table, her portly 
legs swinging, her hands smeared with ink. 

“Work-basket, Mr. Scott, darling,” said 
Kitty without a twinkle; “scent, Mr. Douglas; 
doll—doll—let me see! Oh, I have forgotten. 
Don’t bother any more now, sweetheart, come 
out in the skiff.” She swept the Midget’s 
smudgy letters together and bore her and Joan 
down to the landing-stage. 

A miracle of blue enveloped the world. The 
harbour was a panorama, where steam-pinnaces 
fussed noisily from battleship to battleship. 
A fleet of fishing-smacks, with brown and red 
sails flapping limply, were gliding out to sea. 
Behind all was the faint jangle of bells, the 
eternal background to Malta’s blue and sun¬ 
shine. 

Kitty dabbled her oar idly. Suddenly she 
bethought her of an errand to Valetta. 

“A little far to row?” Joan objected. She 


THE SILKEN SCARF 


93 


was trailing her fingers through the clear water, 
her lips were curved to a smile. The joy of 
life was knocking at her heart. 

“Don’t be lazy!” said Kitty. She noted the 
smile on Joan’s lips, her own twisted in sympa¬ 
thy. She row T ed across the wide blue bay in 
silence. Her thoughts were occupied consider¬ 
ing a suitable fancy dress for Joan. Mrs. Craig 
was a tenacious person; also she was a wise 
woman and could bide her time. Chance helped 
her this morning. 

“I shan’t be long, Joan.” She stepped on 
the landing-stage and turned towards the steps. 

It was the same street which Anthony Fen¬ 
wick had climbed with O’Donoghue one hot 
March afternoon ten years earlier. 

Before she came in sight Joan heard her 
voice on her return. She smiled; Kitty had a 
way of picking up people wherever she went. 
She rounded the corner. A man was with her. 

“Mr. Fenwick, Joan,” Kitty introduced. 

So this was Dickie’s friend. Joan looked up 
at him with quick interest. 

Who can explain attraction at first sight? 
Even before he spoke, Joan felt curiously drawn 
towards Fenwick. They began to talk. 

The minutes slipped by. A twinkle lurked in 
Mrs. Craig’s eyes; she pushed her oar gently 
to and fro. To be ignored by a man was a new 
experience to her. 


94 


THE SILKEN SCARF 


“ Joan, it’s a quarter to one; perhaps we had 
better go?’’ she suggested meekly. 

Joan flushed. “Oh, Kitty, have I been keep¬ 
ing you? Pm sorry.’’ For the moment she 
had forgotten Mrs. Craig’s existence. 

Anthony made his adieux. He looked down 
at Joan, holding her hand a fraction of a second 
longer than was necessary. 

“Of course, you are going to the Palace next 
Monday?” 

Mrs. Craig’s shameless attempt to catch 
Joan’s reply was punished, she heard nothing, 
but she was convinced it had not been No. 
Half-way across the bay she suddenly leant 
forwards on her oar and observed Joan thought¬ 
fully : 

“ 4 Night’ is horribly hackneyed, but I be¬ 
lieve it would suit you better than anything 
else.” Her innocent manner suggested the 
renewal of an interrupted discussion about 
Joan’s costume. 

“ 4 Night’—but, Kitty, I don’t know that I 
am going,” Joan protested feebly. 

“Oh, but of course you are!” Kitty said 
placidly. 

“But indeed I have not decided,” Joan 
murmured. 

Two unblinking eyes from the stern had been 
scrutinising her sharply. “Joan, you aren’t a 
bit like a snow queen now, your face is as red 


THE SILKEN SCARF 95 

as fire!” The words were delivered with the 
effect of a pistol shot. 

Joan’s cheeks blazed more fiercely. “I am 
hot—the day is hot.” 

“What were yon smiling at?” her inquisitor 
demanded, keeping two gimlet eyes riveted on 
Joan’s crimson face. 

“Was I smiling?” she asked, driven to bay. 

“ ’Course you was! You have been making 
little smiles to yourself all the way over—I’ve 
been looking at you!” The Midget rested her 
elbows on her fat knees and continued to stare 
inquisitively. 

Kitty intervened. “Midget, don’t ask so 
many questions, it’s not polite.” 

“But, mummy, she was smiling! And she 
smiled at that new man same as she smiles at 
you and Dickie, and—and the people she loves. 
Did you like him, Joan? I did! He asked me 
to go and pick oranges in his garden.” She 
beamed ecstatically. Then she looked again at 
Joan. “Joan, are you awfully hot? your face 
is bright red—it’s crimson!” 

“Midget, if you tease Joan any more about 
her face I won’t let you pick those oranges,” 
Kitty threatened, but inwardly she was 
chuckling. 

“Oliver, I believe I have found the solution,” 
she announced triumphantly to her husband 
after luncheon in the garden. 


96 


THE SILKEN SCARF 


He racked his brain. “What solution, Kit?” 

44 Joan ’s of course, silly!’ 9 She shook his arm 
impatiently. “It’s quite time she should come 
into the world again, but it would have taken 
me weeks to persuade her. Well, she met 
Anthony Fenwick this morning, and hey 
presto!” She waved her hands triumphantly. 
4 4 1 believe she’s coming to the ball on Monday! ’ ’ 

Major Craig frowned. He flicked the end of 
his cigarette against the edge of a green orange 
tub, filled with a laden tree. 44 I call that a bit 
disappointing in Joan. Why on earth should 
she do all in a hurry for a stranger what you 
couldn’t get her to do?” 

His wife surveyed him pityingly. 4 4 My dear 
man, will you ever understand women? Don’t 
you know that nine times out of ten we will do 
for a man—a complete stranger, mark you— 
what streams—rivers —oceans of persuasion 
from another woman wouldn’t make us do?” 

4 4 You are talking about love at first sight and 
all that bosh?” His tone was impatient. 

44 Oliver,” said Kitty, 44 you are clever enough 
at your own job—I suppose—but at other peo¬ 
ple’s!”—she flung out her arms significantly. 
4 4 You may take it from me that but for love at 
first sight the marriage market might put up its 
shutters. We should have too much time to find 
you out.” 

His equanimity was restored; he laughed. 


THE SILKEN SCARF 97 

“Don’t you try matchmaking with Joan, 
Kit.” 

She peeped over her shoulder to make sure 
nobody was w 7 ithin earshot. “I don’t think 
there is any need for it in this case.” 

“You mean-?” 

“They are both immensely attracted.” 

He lit a fresh cigarette and glanced at her. 
“What about Dickie?” 

“Ah, Dickie—poor Dickie!” she sighed. 
“Oliver, isn’t it dreadfully unfair that scarcely 
anyone can get happiness without somebody 
else suffering for it?” 

“The piper’s got to be paid somehow,” he 
answered tritely, puffing a cloud of smoke into 
the transparent air and watching it rise 
straight upwards. 

“The poor pipers!” Kitty said regretfully. 
“I hope it will be made up to them in heaven. 
And I wish from the bottom of my heart that 
Fate hadn’t chosen Dickie as one of them.” 




CHAPTER IX 


The old stone Palace was ablaze with light. 

A trifle dazed after her long retirement Joan 
followed Kitty up the red-carpeted staircase. 
They were midway in a stream of arriving 
guests. How would Anthony find her in such 
a crowd? 

Already he was 1 ‘ Anthony’’ in her thoughts. 
It was little more than a week since they had 
met for the first time. Since then how often 
had they seen each other! To Joan, if not in 
person, in thought he had filled every moment 
of her days. Never before had she experienced 
this wonderful pulsing of life. 

She need not have wondered if he would find 
her. An hour ago he had taken up his position 
near the head of the staircase. He was by her 
side at once. 

“You are late!” he said. 

Kitty overheard. She laughed. Personally 
she would have resented his slight suggestion 
of imperiousness, but Joan did not object. It 
may have been that she had encountered too 
much weakness in the two men who had hitherto 
filled the foreground of her life. 

The evening w^ore on. The lights, the colour, 

98 


THE SILKEN SCARF 


99 


the music, were a little intoxicating. Joan’s 
cheeks were flushed, her eyes shone. She and 
Fenwick danced again, and yet again and again 
together. At supper admiring eyes followed 
her as she passed with Fenwick down the 
length of the vast armoury. Mrs. Craig’s 
choice was fully justified—the filmy black 
skirts, starred with silver, the crescent on the 
small dark head, carried no suggestion of the 
hackneyed. 

Fenwick found a table at the farthest corner 
of the hall. Joan smiled at the speed with 
which the waiter disappeared to do his bidding. 
It occurred to her that to repeat an order must 
be an unknown occurrence to him. 

Suddenly he turned to her. “Why did you 
choose it? All the evening I have wanted to 
know,” he asked abruptly. 

“Choose what?” The lips curved crookedly 
upwards in the way O’Donoghue adored, but- 
they had never smiled at him as they now 
smiled at Anthony Fenwick. 

He touched her draperies lightly. “This. 
Why did you choose ‘Night’?” 

The twist of the lips accentuated. He 
watched it, fascinated. 

“Don’t you like it?” She glanced swiftly 
at him, then looked away. The flush in her 
cheeks deepened. “I thought that—that I 
looked rather nice myself!” 



> 1 
) > o 


'f 


100 


THE SILKEN SCARF 


“Nice! As to that-” He broke off. 

The colour spread from her cheeks to the 
tips of her tiny ears. She felt his eyes on her. 

For a moment or two neither spoke, then 
Fenwick broke the silence. He spoke w T ith such 
complete lack of self-consciousness that he was 
saved from any suggestion of the melodramatic. 

“I would rather that now—at our beginning 
—you had not chosen—‘ Night/ ” 

She fidgeted silently with her bread. She 
was afraid to raise her eyes. 

“But why not as—‘Night’?” she whispered 
presently. 

He leant across the table to her. “Because 
I have passed through it.” 

His meaning was unmistakable. She thrilled 
with exaltation. Another link united them. 
He too had known the darkness of despair. 
Could it be that Fate intended they should 
together struggle back to sunlight? 

“After winter follow^eth summer, after night 
the day returneth, and after a tempest a great 
calm.” 

The words ran through her mind. She 
recalled the moment of her despair when Ben¬ 
jamin Carnegie had gravely repeated them to 
her. She saw again the shabby room, and 
through the windows the straggling fields 
stretching beyond the garden, and over them 
the tender haze of Ireland’s early spring. 



THE SILKEN SCARF 


101 


In her low beautiful voice she repeated the 
quotation to Fenwick. “Once-” she hesi¬ 

tated. He could see the soft curve of breast 
rise and fall tumultuously—“a friend told me he 
had never known the promise fail. I was very 
unhappy. Ever since I have prayed that I might 
find it so. Perhaps one day you”—he strained 
his ear to hear—“may also prove it so.” 

He wondered what sorrow had touched her. 

“Then you understand what night is?” he 
asked her gently. 

The colour ebbed from her cheeks, a shadow 
fell across the eyes. “For years my life was 
night,” she answered quietly. 

His psychological moment had arrived. Now 
was the time to disburden himself of that black 
memory which during ten long years had 
haunted him: to tell her that in resolve he was 
guilty of murder, that only chance had saved 
him from the actual deed. 

He bent forwards. The words trembled on 
his lips. He would not come to her with a 
shadow lurking in ambush. 

“Joan-” 

“Yes?” Then as he did not speak: “What 
is it?” 

He forced a smile. His courage failed him. 

“Nothing—a memory.” W 7 hat if she should 
not understand—if she should shrink from 
him? He dared not tell her. 




102 


THE SILKEN SCARF 


“A memory? Tell me,” she whispered. 

Before him stretched a street of steps, high 
and narrow, in his nostrils was the taint of 
garlic. In a church silence grew—and grew 
till it became a living thing—a swift cry cut it 
—God! was he never to forget? 

“It is a memory that—that would hurt in 
the telling,” he said. His voice was a little 
husky. 

She leant nearer to him. The lips were 
smiling, the eyes shone. “Then I do not wish 
to hear it.” 

He looked into her eyes. In this distant 
comer they were shut out from the crowd. 
They did not hear capricious snatches of music, 
the babel of gay voices and laughter. Her 
little bare hand lay on the table. His fingers 
closed round it. 

“Joan, I want to know—has your night 
passed?”—the fingers tightened their clasp— 
“tell me—dear.” 

She forced her eyes to his. How her lashes 
swept her cheeks. She was trembling. Dawn 
had pierced the night. 

“Lately—just lately—I have felt the dark¬ 
ness pass. I—I—have been content!” she 
whispered. 

“Content!” In his voice was the ring of 
triumph! “Content is for the old. Summer 
means happiness! Joan”—he bent still nearer 


THE SILKEN SCARF 103 

—“tell me, do you think you will find— 
summer ?’ ’ 

Surely he must hear the beating of her heart ? 
But she was glad—oh, glad! glad! that he 
should hear. She was swept off her feet. 
Summer indeed had come. It had burst 
through winter’s bleakness, overwhelming her 
by the swiftness of its advent. But she was 
reckless. Greedily she held out both hands to 
the sunshine. 

She raised her eyes and looked fearlessly at 
Fenwick. 

“My summer has come!” she said, and in 
her voice was the passion of June. 


CHAPTER X 

The postman limped up the avenue. He was 
greeted by a lightning charge, a friendly babel 
of canine voices. 

‘ ‘ Down wid ye, Jerry! be off wid ye, Sarah !’ 1 
He shooed the dogs to right and left. “What 
the divil’s ailin’ the pack uv ye this mornin ’ ? ” 

“Axin’ yer pardin, sir.” He grinned affec¬ 
tionately at 0 ’Donoghue, who strolled down the 
steps to take the letters. 

“Mornin’, Mulcahy, fine day for the country, 
eh? How’s the bad leg? Go round to the 
kitchen and ask Mrs. Lehane for a bottle of 
that stuff she warrants to cure the stiffest leg 
in Christendom!” said Dickie genially. While 
he spoke he glanced idly at the pile of envelopes 
he held. 

“Thank ye, sir. Faith, ’tis a gran’ day for 
the country altogither, glory be to God!” He 
cocked an eye heavenwards but getting no reply 
it travelled swiftly back to earth, just in time 
to see Dickie disappear into the house. He 
gave a grunt of disappointment; this morning 
he was not to have his accustomed gossip with 
the “masther.” 


104 


THE SILKEN SCARF 


105 


Dickie was whistling softly. He held a letter 
from Joan. His hand crept to his waistcoat 
pocket where he kept the few letters she had 
sent him. They were crumpled from constant 
reading. He sat down by the table and opened 
the envelope. 

• ••••• 

He pushed back his chair and walked to the 
window. The sun shone still on the hyacinth- 
filled border, shone on the smooth green lawn, 
poked an impertinent way through the branches 
of a sweet-smelling larch to coquet with the 
violets clustering round its foot, exactly as he 
had done on any fine spring morning for 
thousands of years. The commonplace of 
centuries was being perpetuated. But to 
O’Donoghue the world had suddenly grown 
unreal. 

“Go down, Jerry! Go down, you brute!” 
He started violently as a slim red setter jumped 
on him. With a howl the dog retreated to a 
corner. The incredible had happened, his 
master had kicked him. 

Presently Dickie flung himself into a chair. 
His hands rested limply on his knees while he 
stared into space. And for a long time he sat 
so, seeing nothing, hearing nothing. 

The parlour-maid came to know if she might 
clear the table. “No!” said Dickie shortly. 
What did cups and saucers matter? 


106 


THE SILKEN SCARF 


The morning wore on. He was dully aware 
that the household was going about its duties. 
Through a dream came to him the opening and 
shutting of doors, the thump of a broom, the 
dragging of rugs. They were being removed 
for shaking. He set himself to count the 
moments till the maid brought them back. It 
was a subterfuge to cheat thought, to gain a 
little longer breathing space before he looked 
the catastrophe fairly in the face. Though we 
see the boulder rearing high by our side it is 
but human nature to cling to any straw that 
may delay the inevitable crash. 

Steps came pounding up the kitchen stairs 
followed by a dull thud in the hall. The maid 
had returned with the rugs. The breathing 
space vanished. Down crashed O’Donoghue’s 
boulder. 

The hope he had so madly clung to that per¬ 
haps some miracle might yet give him Joan’s 
love was dead. He flung his arms on the table 
and buried his head in them. 

Presently inaction grew intolerable. He went 
out and strode down the road scarcely knowing 
where he went. He hesitated by the gate of 
the Four Chimneys, walked on a little, then 
turned back. He found Mr. Carnegie mowing 
the lawn. 

“That you, Dickie?” Benjamin called out 
cheerily. 4 ‘ Come to look through those Notes ? ’ y 


THE SILKEN SCARF 


107 


An unexpected trait in O’Donoghue’s char¬ 
acter was his interest in Mr. Carnegie’s 
research work. But one glance at Dickie’s face 
showed Benjamin that he had not come this 
morning to burrow in what Miss Hilliard called 
“nasty foreign diseases.” ‘‘Nothing wrong 
with the hounds, I hope?” he asked anxiously. 
The previous season the poisoning of the pack 
had stirred the countryside to its depths. 

Dickie shook his head. “No, they are all 
right. ’ ’ 

There was a pause, then Benjamin resumed 
his mowing. As he worked he reflected. In 
Dickie’s life hounds took only second place to 
Joan; it followed therefore that Joan was at 
the root of the present trouble. Once more 
the machine travelled the length of the lawn, 
then he left it and came and sat by Dickie. 

“Hot work for old bones,” he remarked 
carelessly. There was something tentative in 
his manner, he felt he was on the eve of receiv¬ 
ing a confidence. 

O’Donoghue glanced at him. “Better put 
on your coat, sir, you’ll get a chill.” He 
crossed the lawn and fetched it from where it 
lay on the ground. 

“Thank you, thank you.” Benjamin stuck 
his arms stiffly through the holes. How con¬ 
siderate Dickie was in little ways. A good 
fellow. The pity of it that he had not a little 


108 THE SILKEN SCARF 

more backbone. So the old man considered 
regretfully. 

“Joan is engaged!” O’Donoghue blurted out 
suddenly. 

“Ah!” said Benjamin. Now he understood. 

Dickie thrust out his foot and dug a savage 
hole in the path. That path had been made by 
Benjamin himself, his pride in it was immense. 
Anxiously he watched the devastating foot, but 
he remained silent. 

“Heard from her this morning.” Dickie’s 
voice was gruff. He rummaged in his pockets. 
He knew the letter was in his breast-pocket, but 
he proceeded to make a careful hunt through 
every other pocket. Perhaps he hoped that 
movement might steady his voice. “Wanted to 
tell me herself—I being her best friend and 
all that sort of thing—says she never was so 
happy-” 

Benjamin stared studiously in front of him; 
it would have hurt him just then to see Dickie’s 
face. 

Presently without turning round he thrust 
his hand through Dickie’s arm. “I am glad 
Joan has found happiness; she has had a deal 
of sadness in her life,” he said quietly. 

There was no reply. 

“Will you smoke, Dickie!” The old man 
pulled out his case. He did not smoke him- 



THE SILKEN SCARF 


109 


self, but lie kept a supply of cigarettes for his 
friends. They were scented and particularly 
abhorrent to O’Donoghue, but grateful for the 
implied sympathy he accepted one now. 

“Who is she marrying?” Mr. Carnegie was 
still absorbed in the view across the river. 

Dickie puffed hard for a moment. “A man 
I know—saw a lot of him in Malta—Fenwick 
—Anthony Fenwick.” He spoke in jerks. 

“A good sort?” 

Again Dickie puffed savagely. It was a bit 
thick to have to sing the praises of a successful 
rival. Then he swore at himself for a cur. “A 
good sort—the very best,” he said. “Joan— 
Joan is-” 

Mr. Carnegie ignored the broken sentence. 
“Joan is worthy of the best,” he said. In his 
own throat there was a little lump. 

O’Donoghue sprang up. His hands were 
burrowing deep in his pockets. “If she’d have 
had me I’d have lain down in the mud for her 
to walk over,” he said gruffly. 

Benjamin shook his head. He had met so 
many men who professed themselves ready to 
be trampled on by the woman they loved. 
And how useless it was! Woman needs a 
crutch not a mat as an accompaniment through 
life, unless her mothering instinct is abnormal, 
and then she is not complete woman. 



110 


THE SILKEN SCARF 


“I’d have given her any mortal thing she 
wanted!” The walls of O’Donoghue’s reticence 
had crumbled. 

“It’s not a question of giving where a woman 
like Joan is concerned,” the old man gently 
reminded him. 

“I know it!” Dickie said sharply. “But 
there it is, she might have had every mortal 
thing I own—and my chance in the next world, 
if she had wanted it!” 

“In this world, yes, sometimes ’tis worth 
while giving all—but the next? That’s the 
crux,” murmured Benjamin. 

O’Donoghue made ready to go. He looked 
down at the old man. His face was sullen. 

“It is no crux, so far as I am concerned. I’d 
willingly risk heaven—whatever that may mean 
—a hundred, a thousand times over, if only I 
could have Joan in this world.” 

Sadly Mr. Carnegie watched him go down 
the path. His shoulders were squared, his head 
carried high, he threw stones ostentatiously for 
the dogs. And all the time Benjamin knew that 
the lips were twitching, the eyes misty. 


CHAPTER XI 


“ Happy, Joan?” 

Mrs. Craig was curled up in an arm-chair. 
Through the open window there came a warm 
whiff of orange blossom from the garden. She 
smiled over her shoulder at her cousin. 

Joan crossed the room slowly. The colour 
flushed her cheeks. She caressed Kitty’s arm 
lightly. “So happy that sometimes I feel 
afraid. Ho you know that feeling, Kitty?” 

“No, I don’t,” said Mrs. Craig emphatically; 
“why should one be afraid? We were bom to 
be happy, and we have the right to every scrap 
of happiness we can get!” 

Joan hesitated. “All the same I do feel 
afraid at odd moments,” she insisted. 

With deliberation Kitty proceeded to uncurl 
herself from the pillows. Midway she paused, 
one daintily-shod foot poised in air. She 
smiled whimsically at Joan. 

“Take my word for it, there’s no occasion 
for fear! Soon enough you’ll discover the fly 
in your ointment! ’ ’ 

There was a murmur of protest from Joan. 

“The woman does not exist who after a 

month of marriage cannot identify her par- 

111 


112 THE SILKEN SCARF 

ticular specimen,’’ Mrs. Craig continued un¬ 
moved. 

Joan’s lips assumed their tantalising upward 
twist. 

“Can you, Kitty?” 

“Of course, I can,” said Mrs. Craig promptly. 
“My specimen is—Oliver!” 

“Oliver! But, Kitty-” 

Mrs. Craig interrupted. “Oh, I know he is 
a model husband, a rock of discretion, of relia¬ 
bility, of everything he ought to be!” She 
shrugged her shoulders. “But sometimes I do 
think life would be a degree more exciting if 
there was more of the unexpected about him. 
Listen, Joan,”—she lowered her voice, glancing 
at the ’open door. Doors were rarely shut in 
the Craigs’ household, life was conducted, so 
to speak, in the full glare of the footlights— 
“Oliver will be in love with me when I am 
bald and toothless because I always keep a 
little bit of the unexpected up my sleeve— 
remember it is the only way to keep a man in 
love with you! But as for me, I am not one 
scrap any more in love with Oliver-” 

“Kitty!” Joan was genuinely shocked. 

Mrs. Craig waved an airy hand. “Wait a 
minute! I love him—though I never let him 
know how much!—but I am not ‘in love’ with 
him, and frankly, I miss the sensation!” She 
looked at Joan and laughed. “Don’t look so 





THE SILKEN SCARF 


113 


scandalised, Joan! It’s the truth. I always 
know just exactly what he will do and say, I 
know his very thoughts—dear old thing!’ ’ Her 
eyes softened. ‘‘Why, if the need arose I would 
clean his hoots to-morrow. All the same”— 
she shot a mischievous glance at Joan—“I 
believe I would rather be less ‘sure’ if I could 
be in love again with him! ’’ 

Joan said nothing. She drummed her fingers 
thoughtfully on the back of Mrs. Craig’s chair. 

Kitty’s mood had changed to all gaiety. She 
sprang up and seized Joan lightly by the wrists. 
“Now let me tell you what’s in store for you!” 
She laughed at the indignant colour that 
rushed to Joan’s cheeks. “Don’t think you can 
escape Fate! You are marrying a man with a 
mighty strong will—and a very good thing too! 
seeing you have a strong enough one of your 
own—you slight ethereal-looking people nearly 
always have!—it’s the giants who are weak as 
water. Now as to Anthony, his will strikes me 
as the kind that is perched on the top of a 
volcano-” 

“Meester Fenwick, signora,” Carmello, the 
pretty dark-eyed house-boy announced. 

Just for a second Mrs. Craig was taken aback. 
Discretion had been forgotten and she was 
speaking at the ordinary pitch of her clear 
voice; it must have carried through the open 
door down the short length of corridor that led 



114 


THE SILKEN SCARF 


to the stone staircase. Then she pulled herself 
together and smiled from Joan’s pink face to 
his immovable one. 

“A thousand pardons, Anthony, we were dis¬ 
cussing you. You heard, of course? But a 
volcano is not an uncomplimentary compari¬ 
son!” Her eyes twinkled. “Joan, take 
Anthony on the balcony and make my 
amends! ’ ’ 

She nodded to them from the tall doorway. 
They listened to the tap, tap of her high-heeled 
shoes down the corridor. 

Anthony slipped his arm round Joan. He 
was watching the flush in her cheeks. The long 
lashes hid her eyes. He drew nearer. “What 
other iniquities has Kitty ascribed to me?” he 
asked smiling. 

She smiled back. “Kitty was talking non¬ 
sense,” she said lightly. “Let us come on the 
balcony. ’ ’ 

A convoy of boats was creeping across the 
bay coming towards the landing-stage. It was 
a funeral party. Leaning over the railings 
Joan and Fenwick watched its approach. 

The coffin was lifted out, then the other boats 
unloaded. An acolyte swung a censer, and a 
procession formed and began slowly to mount 
the steps. A cloud rose in the clear atmos¬ 
phere. Mingling with the smell of incense was 
the taint of garlic. 


THE SILKEN SCARF 


115 


Fenwick frowned. The heaviest hour of his 
life was associated with these two odours. 
Why should he be reminded of it now? 

Gradually the mounting footsteps died away. 
They had reached the tiny patch of God’s Acre 
on the crest of the hill. One of those planting 
grounds from which each one of us will at last 
grow to his full stature. One prays the growth 
will be quicker than in earth’s seedling beds. 
In those beds it is always slow, sometimes it is 
cruel. 

Joan’s hands were gripped close, her face 
was white. Anthony turned to her. “What is 
it, dear?” he asked anxiously. 

She tried to smile. “It is foolish of me, 
Anthony, but just now when—when the 
funeral passed a curious feeling came over 
me-” 

“What was it? Tell me.” He took one of 
her hands. 

She hesitated, then spoke with an effort. “I 
had an oppression—a dreadful oppression as 
if—as if something were going to happen— 
something awful.” Suddenly she clung to him. 

“Anthony, nothing, nothing, can part us?” 

“Nothing, dear.” 

“Nothing but death, and that only for a 
moment,” she whispered. 

“Only for a moment,” he repeated quietly. 

There was a silence. Then her hands crept 



116 


THE SILKEN SCARF 


from his shoulders to his neck. He could feel 
her trembling. 

“Anthony!” she said passionately, “now 
that I know what love is, I could never let you 
go.” 

His being thrilled in response to hers. How 
she cared! His dark memory was obliterated. 

“Anthony!” 

He started, she spoke so abruptly. 

“Will you tell me something?” 

“What is it?” A swift shadow fell across 
his heart. 

“Anthony, I want all of you, no secret 
should lie between us. That night at the 
Palace—you remember?—you said you had 
passed through ‘night.’ Tell me, dear”—her 
head pressed closer to his shoulder, her fingers 
twined round his—“what was your sorrow?” 

Again the moment for confession had come 
to him. His pulses grew faster. She was right; 
no secret should lie between them. And her 
love was strong enough to bear, she would 
understand, she would forgive. But she must 
prepare for pain. 

“Joan dear, it will hurt you.” He found it 
difficult to steady his voice. 

Her fingers tightened their clasp. “What¬ 
ever hurts you naturally must hurt me. But 
nothing can hurt me in the one way that 
matters . 1 ’ 


THE SILKEN SCARF 117 

Then there was a reservation. His resolution 
weakened. 

“And that way, Joan, is-?” 

She rubbed her cheek against him. “A way 
in which you could never hurt me.” 

“Tell me what way, Joan?” 

“Anthony, don’t be foolish! I have said it 
is an impossibility with you.” 

“But I want to hear you say it,” he insisted. 
Then, as she remained silent: “Joan, you are 
not afraid to tell me? But a moment ago you 
said nothing could part us. Surely you meant 
that?” 

The colour ebbed from her cheeks; across her 
pathway hung a shadow from the past. “You 
don’t doubt me, dear? There is just one thing 
—but with you it is such an impossibility. I 
have just repeated it. Anthony, don’t let us 
talk of it any more! ’ ’ 

He looked into her eyes; silently he was 
compelling her. 

“Shame could only part us.” It was a 
whisper. 

• • • • • • 

There was a pause. He was readjusting his 
decision. Then: “Could you never forgive— 
shame, Joan?” 

She turned in swift anger. “Anthony, how 
can you ask! ’ ’ Her indignation melted. ‘ ‘ For¬ 
give me, dear, but you have never experienced 



118 


THE SILKEN SCARF 


it—you cannot understand my feelings—you 
have never felt, as I have—envy of the smallest 
of your tenants because he has the right to hold 
up his head. Anthony, I have often thought 
when I read that verse in the Psalms—you 
know the one?— 4 Yea, though I walk through 
the valley of the shadow of death ’—how in¬ 
finitely darker is the valley of the shadow of— 
shame.” 

Suddenly she smiled, the colour came back to 
her cheeks, her eyes shone. “But I have left 
that valley far behind! The last shadow van¬ 
ished for ever when you asked me to marry 
you, Anthony.” 

“Dear God!” he murmured to himself. 

“And your sorrow, Anthony?” she urged 
presently. 

“It concerned a woman, Joan.” 

“Yes?” She pressed closer to him. 

“We were engaged to be married.” 

Her fingers caught his and held them fiercely. 
“And-?” she asked. 

He was speaking in jerks. “She was bad— 
rotten to the core—I found her out in time.” 

There was a long silence. Did she suspect 
that he had told her only part? He stole a 
glance at her. She was very white, the muscles 
of her face were twitching. Would she insist 
on hearing the rest? Did his future hang in 
the balance? He waited in breathless suspense. 




THE SILKEN SCARF 


119 


“Anthony!” She was trying to control her 
voice. “Did you care for her more—than for 
me, for me, Anthony?” 

So that was it! She was jealous! In his 
relief he could have laughed. 

“Anthony, you said the night was very 
black. ’ ’ 

His arms were round her, his face pressed 
close to hers. 

“My love for her was as far removed as day 
from night, as heaven from hell, as my love 
for you,” he said hoarsely. Nearer he strained 
her to his heart. “My dearest, you have 
brought daylight to my life!” 

The moments fled by. 

At last Joan spoke. 

“Anthony, I thank God that your night has 
passed!” 

Her whole being was lifted in a Te Deum. 

But even as she spoke a shadow flung itself 
across the glorious noontide in which he 
basked; robbed of its sparkle was the cup from 
which he drank so eagerly. 

Night had but folded her wings. 


CHAPTER XII 


Mrs. Craig and Joan parted company at the 
boat-slip at Valetta. Kitty was going on a 
round of calls. Joan intended spending the 
afternoon in what Mrs. Craig described as 
“messing about in poky little shops.’’ 

Joan’s way led her up the street of steps 
which Fenwick and O’Donoghue had climbed 
on that hot March afternoon ten years pre¬ 
viously. 

This April day was hot as it had been then. 
Joan was glad, as they had been, to escape into 
the shade from the glare. Presently she 
paused for breath. Away behind her lay a 
streak of turquoise blue; she looked up through 
the slit of street that cleft the tall houses 
shrouded in mystery, and saw a glimpse of 
sky unbelievably blue. The street was full of 
colour from fruit and flowers; there was the 
crimson glow from charcoal stoves. Her heart 
reached out joyfully to it. Summer had come 
to fill her life. 

She continued to toil up the steps. Voices 
a little distant arrested her; she turned her 
head idly. The door of a church had just 

swung open. Two women, wearing faldettas, 

120 


THE SILKEN SCARF 


121 


came out; they talked together as they de¬ 
scended the steps. With the opening of the 
door a faint odour of incense had filtered 
through. Joan glanced at the cool porch and 
hesitated. It would be pleasant to rest for a 
little. Slowly she mounted the wide flight of 
steps. She reached the porch. Slowly she 
pushed the padded door- 

Then she found herself racing furiously 
down the steps. To her amazement she was 
trembling. Why? She could give no reason. 
She had heard nothing, seen nothing. She 
only knew at the moment when she pushed the 
door inwards an unaccountable reluctance, 
more, a horror, of entering the church had 
seized her. Her one idea was to escape as 
quickly as possible. 

She was shivering and she crossed from the 
shade to the sunshine and continued her climb 
up the steps. But her nerves were on edge 
and she found it difficult to dispel that moment 
of unreasoning fear. To divert her thoughts 
she took a little list from her bag and tried to 
engross herself in it. There were souvenirs to 
be bought for the people at home—for Mr. 
Carnegie, Miss Hilliard, Dickie,—oh, certainly 
Dickie. And there were trifles to buy for her 
own house, her house and Anthony’s. Her 
lips curved happily. She had regained her 
balance, 



122 


THE SILKEN SCARF 


Presently she plunged into one of the old- 
world windows that displayed curios, and soon 
a pile of purchases lay on the narrow counter. 
The fat padrona beamed and her dark eyes 
sparkled with avarice. Evidently this signorina 
had a fathomless purse. 

Did the signorina see anything else she cov¬ 
eted, she inquired. Draperies for example? 
She had them in abundance—from every 
country, from Sicily—Algiers—Gibraltar. She 
unfolded a heap haphazard while greedily she 
watched Joan. They jostled each other in 
garish colourings. 

Joan shook her head; they were all too gaudy. 
For this afternoon she had bought enough— 
perhaps some other day. The padrona acqui¬ 
esced cheerfully; it was long since the blessed 
saints had sent her such a customer. She chat¬ 
tered volubly. Inattentively Joan listened, her 
eyes were wandering round the ill-lit low- 
ceilinged shop. Hanging against the wall was 
an embroidered scarf. She asked to see it 
nearer. 

The string fell from the padrona’s hand, she 
turned eagerly towards the wall where Joan 
pointed. Then, spite of her greed, she hesi¬ 
tated. The story attached to that length of 
white scarf was not a pretty one—certainly it 
was not good for the ears of this English 
signorina. 


THE SILKEN SCARF 


123 


“Please let me look at it.” Joan was a 
trifle surprised at the woman’s unwilling 
manner. 

The padrona shrugged her plump shoulders. 
The blessed saints need not blame her—it was 
the signorina herself who insisted. She laid 
the scarf on the counter. 

Joan examined it with the skill of the 
connoisseur. 

“It is exquisite,” she said delightedly; “see 
the shadings of those pinks—but what is that?” 
She broke off and pointed to a dark jagged 
stain in one corner. 

Again the padrona shrugged her shoulders. 
In deprecation she stretched her fingers, palms 
downwards. 

“That, signorina? A story belongs to this 
scarf, but it is not pretty. See! it is enough 
for the signorina that the embroidery is fine— 
ah, beautifully fine!” Her fat fingers traced 
it lovingly. “As for that”—she pointed to 
the stain—“it is nothing, nothing! See! it 
could be cut out—or perhaps a little patch— 
doubtless the signorina could do it herself? 
—it would not show!” 

“But I want to hear the story.” Joan’s 
dark eyes were on her. She waited expect¬ 
antly. 

The padrona resigned herself with another 
shrug—since the signorina would have it—the 


124j THE SILKEN SCARF 

blessed saints would bear that in mind. She 
began: 

“It was ten years ago since this scarf”—she 
drew the soft length through her fingers—“was 
found in the Church of St. Maria—it is on the 
right-hand side of the street as you come up 
from the water. You passed it, signorina?” 
she questioned. 

Joan nodded. 

The padrona warmed to her story. “I re¬ 
member the day well; it was hot and sunny, 
much like this, so hot one could scarce raise 
the head for drowsiness. Pietro, the sacristan, 
was overcome by it; after his dinner he slept, 
he forgot his duties—the saints pardon him!— 
he did not return to the church till sundown 
—and then he found stretched on the floor— 
ah, Dio mio! quiet—so quiet!”—she paused 
dramatically, then hissed the words in Joan’s 
ear—“Padre Sarpi!” 

Joan started back. “A priest!” 

“Yes, signorina, a priest! His head was 
cut, a pool of blood was on the floor. This” 
—she raised the scarf and slipped it through 
her fingers—“lay by his side. That is the 
reason of this little stain.” She pointed sig¬ 
nificantly to the dark jagged patch. 

Involuntarily Joan recoiled. “Who killed 
him?” she asked. 

The padrona lifted her hands to heaven. 


THE SILKEN SCARF 


125 


i ‘ The murderer was never found. Some day, 
perhaps, he may yet be brought to justice. 
The padre was good, ah! but he was loved by 
everybody.’’ She looked inquisitively at Joan. 
She had whitened. “The signorina will not 
take the scarf now that she knows its story? 
No?” Regretfully she replaced it on its peg. 
Then her greed overmastered her, she stroked 
it persuasively. “But, see, it is but a little 
mark, the colours of the silk are divine.” With 
a swift movement she draped it across her 
shoulders. “The signorina can have it cheap.” 
She held it to Joan. 

“No! I don’t want it!” Joan shivered. 
She was sorry she had insisted on hearing the 
story. “Please let me have my parcel, I am 
in a hurry.” She wanted to get away from 
the shop. 

‘ ‘ Good day, signorina. ’ y The padrona wished 
her a smiling farewell. 

“Good day.” Joan turned in the doorway 
and looked back. A strip of shimmering silk, 
with exquisitely embroidered ends, save for one 
jagged stained corner, stood out curiously dis¬ 
tinct against the dark background. She looked 
away quickly. The scarf repulsed her, yet it 
attracted her extraordinarily. 

There was half an hour to spare before she 
kept her appointment with Kitty; she walked 
slowly down the Strada Reale. She was re- 


126 


THE SILKEN SCARF 


fleeting. How foolish she had been! The 
stitchery on that scarf was beautiful; it was 
absurd to give way to superstition! She turned 
suddenly and retraced her steps to the little 
dark shop. 

The fat padrona greeted her joyously. She 
did not wait till Joan spoke, She guessed why 
she had come back. 

4 ‘It is the scarf? The signorina has changed 
her mind?” she said eagerly. 

Joan hesitated; already she regretted her 
return: perhaps it would be better not to take 
the silken length. 

But it was too late; the padrona was wrap¬ 
ping it delicately in tissue paper. Again to 
change her mind would make her look foolish 
in the woman’s eyes—and, after all, she need 
not keep it, it would be a welcome present to 
Kitty’s little maid. 

But Baptisto’s greedy hands never had the 
opportunity of twisting it coquettishly round 
her dark hair, with a red rose nestling in its 
folds. 

Neither did Kitty see it when she was asked 
for admiration for the purchases of the after¬ 
noon. 

Joan could not explain her motives. But 
the scarf, still wrapped in its tissue covering, 
lay at the bottom of her trunk. 



CHAPTER XIII 


The wedding was arranged for the autumn. 
Joan and Kitty had come home to buy the 
trousseau. They were staying in a flat off 
Kensington High Street. Kitty was in her 
element. Shopping was a never-ending source 
of joy to her. 

“How delicious for us two to be here by 
ourselves,’’ she said one afternoon to Joan* 
She was stretched luxuriously on the sofa. 

Joan’s response was tepid. Personally she 
was counting the days to October. 

Kitty’s eyebrows ran up. She grinned at 
Joan through a cloud of smoke. 

“Don’t forget when you have been married 
a year to take a holiday from Anthony.” 

Joan smiled across her shoulder at her from 
the open window. “I wonder shall I want to 
take a holiday?” 

“If you are wise you will take it,” mur¬ 
mured Mrs. Craig. “Neither of you will be a 
novelty to the other after twelve months. 
Remember what I am always preaching: that 
the only successful married life is when both 
husband and wife contrive to keep some per¬ 
petual surprise up their sleeve, so to speak.” 

127 


128 


THE SILKEN SCARF 


“Joan!” Suddenly she raised herself on 
her elbow and tossed a pillow across the room. 
“Don’t sit there looking so supercilious. Lis¬ 
ten and I’ll tell you something more. A lot of 
rubbish is talked about the necessity of husband 
and wife sharing the same interests. Do you 
know how that generally ends? From sheer 
satiety of each other in the Divorce Court, or 
if the woman is particularly unselfish she de¬ 
generates into a cipher—she sinks all her inter¬ 
ests in his—and never was there a greater 
mistake.” 

Kitty warmed to her subject, she flung away 
her cigarette. “Do you suppose for one minute 
that half the women, once they are out of 
their twenties, like tearing over the country 
perpetually—hunting, golfing, shooting? Or do 
you imagine they are enjoying themselves 
sitting through some idiotic turn at a music 
hall, while their husbands rock with laughter ? 
Not they! Most of them are secretly bored 
to tears, but they are so preciously afraid of 
losing their husbands if they let them see that 
they don’t enjoy all the things that they enjoy. 
Poor dears, if they only knew it, they are going 
the quickest way to bring it about. My theory 
of keeping happy and married is—keep your 
individuality, hold on to your own interests.” 

Joan’s lips twisted crookedly upwards. 


THE SILKEN SCARF 


129 


“Does it never happen that the husband 
adopts his wife’s interests'?” 

“Providentially not often.” Mrs. Craig lit 
a fresh cigarette. “Oliver tried it for a bit. 
He came shopping with me. Oh!” She gave 
a squeal of delighted recollection. “He had a 
trick of sitting with a Christian-martyr- 
waiting-his-turn-with-the-lions air. Or else he 
would fidget, fidget, fidget, till I could have 
shrieked. It got so on my nerves that I used to 
buy the first thing I was shown—preciously 
expensive too, I never had time to hunt round 
for bargains. And really I believe I should 
have renounced society if he had trotted after 
me much longer. His face of misery in a comer 
was too dreadful. Finally I struck. And now 
the world”—she laughed mischievously—“says 
what a pity Major and Mrs. Craig are so rarely 
seen together.” She kissed the tips of her 
fingers to a photograph standing on the mantel¬ 
shelf. “In reality Major and Mrs. Craig are 
exceedingly happy because—they have scarcely 
one interest in common.” 

“Do you think Anthony and I will be like 
that?” asked Joan. Her tone was sceptical. 

“Do you like a picture without a back¬ 
ground?” Kitty queried promptly. 

Joan eyed her with suspicion. “Why do 
you ask?” 


130 


THE SILKEN SCARF 


“ Because it goes without saying that a 
picture without a background is a picture out 
of proportion. And that’s precisely what a 
woman’s life is like when her husband is ever¬ 
lastingly dangling about her. A husband is 
meant to be in the background—a good, solid 
background-’ ’ 

Joan’s eyes twinkled. “I seem to remember 
hearing you once say that the husband who is 
a rock is a bore ? ’ ’ 

For one second Kitty was discomfited, then 
she rallied her forces. “So I did. It’s the 
smooth rock that is so boring; the thoroughly 
satisfactory rock is the one with little unex¬ 
pected crevices and chips all over it. You love 
the unexpected bits, but all the time you know 
that at bottom it’s solid.” She nodded tri¬ 
umphantly at Joan, then made ready to go. 

Half-way across the room she turned. 
“Never forget that the best husband is meant 
to be a background. You don’t believe me now, 
but when you have been married a few months 
—five—perhaps four”—she held up audacious 
fingers—“it may be only three!—you will be 
thankful when Anthony goes out in the 
morning and leaves you free to do all the 
fussy, ridiculous, useless things that women 
love doing, and can’t possibly do if a man is 
tripping over their heels! ’ ’ 

Joan left alone sat on by the window. The 




THE SILKEN SCARF 


131 


frilled muslin curtains bulged gently inwards 
as the breeze leaned against them; from the box 
on the ledge came a scent of mignonette; over¬ 
head above the high line of roof-top she caught 
a glimpse of sky, a soft blue English summer 
sky. In the High Street, just a few hundred 
yards away, the w T orld-famed drapery stores 
would be filled with women shopping. All 
round her careless, light life was being deli¬ 
cately woven. Everywhere women were doing 
the “ fussy, ridiculous, useless things women 
love doing.’’ Some women, perhaps. 

Of a sudden her pulses quickened. How in¬ 
toxicating had been that last day in the garden 
at Malta when she and Anthony had bidden 
each other good-bye. She recalled the dazzling 
blue of sun and sky, the smell of orange blos¬ 
som. Now her hands flew to hide her swiftly 
crimsoned cheeks. The touch of Anthony’s 
lips was on her eyes, her hair, she could feel 
his tender clasp. In her ears was the muffled 
clang of bells, Malta’s eternal background of 
sounds. And mingling with it were other 
sounds, the baffling, mysterious, blood-quicken¬ 
ing sounds, of the vivid South. Her breath 
came faster; she raised her head and looked 
again at the placid blue and white of the sky, 
at the lightly swaying curtains; she was 
vaguely aware of the elusive mignonette. 
From the High Street the continuous hooting 


132 


THE SILKEN SCARF 


of bus and motor rounded off fitly that life 
where women kept their husbands as back¬ 
grounds. 

Her face fell between her hands. She did 
not ask this calm manna-fed life, she did not 
want Anthony as a background. She wanted 
him with her always, every minute of the day 
—even that would be too short. Ah, Mr. 
Carnegie was right, he had told her she would 
find summer. Summer had indeed come. 
From sheer happiness she laughed aloud. 

Mrs. Craig was passing the door; she heard 
the laugh, and looked in. “What is it, Joan?” 

Joan glanced over her shoulder; her eyes 
shone, her cheeks flamed. In this moment of 
exultation she had been stripped of *her natural 
reserve. • 

“I am so—so gloriously happy, Kitty! 
Nothing —nothing in the world really matters 
to me but Anthony!” 

Some impulse caused Mrs. Craig to cross the 
room swiftly. She knelt down by Joan; for 
once her laughing face was grave. 

“Dear, it is good to love, it is the thing most 
worth while. But, oh, my dear, don’t love 
overmuch, don’t tempt Fate!” 


CHAPTER XIV 


Aggressiveness was the key-note of Miss 
Hilliard’s house. You were aware of it 
directly you looked at the windows. They 
were high and narrow and set flat in a line 
■with the brickwork. There were a good many 
of them and they were placed unusually 
near together. Somehow one pictured them 
as a group of piercing-eyed women with not 
too charitable tongues. Their brilliant polish 
was a little Pharisaical, and it was impossible 
to help feeling that this was due to a boastful 
parade rather than to an irresistible passion 
for cleanliness. 

When the visitor had escaped into the house 
from the censorious glittering eyes, he was 
confronted with the atmosphere of the early 
Victorian era. 

In the main that era stands symbolic of a 
domesticity which expressed itself in a yearly 
baby, an early “cabbagy” dinner, a husband 
and wife who in later years addressed each 
other as c 'father” and 4 "mother”; who could 
listen to the word “spouse,” and felt no tempta¬ 
tion to shriek at its hideosity—its unutterable 

133 


134 


THE SILKEN SCARF 


matter-of-fact domesticity, the domesticity 
that after a brief term of marriage—(perhaps 
it was the result of the 4 ‘ cabbagy’ ’ dinner, per¬ 
haps the monotony of the annual arrival)—sent 
love flying through the window, to be replaced 
by insipid “fondness.’’ 

Obviously the annual arrival did not come to 
Augusta Hilliard’s establishment (advisedly 
one does not say “home”). There was no 
love to be seduced to flight. And she consid¬ 
ered cabbage a coarse diet, more appropriate 
to the kitchen than to the dining-room. 
So her cumbersome mahogany could find 
expression only by a domesticity of pacific 
aggression. 

Self-righteousness gave from the drawing¬ 
room “suite,” from the chiffonier of a fierce 
ugliness. Miss Hilliard’s friends liked her 
better when she was away from her house. 
She seemed to be less censorious and less prim 
when she was removed from the influence of 
super-polish and Victorian turnery. 

As she stood on her doorstep this morning 
scanning the road for passers-by she spied 
O’Donoghue. She went to the gate to inter¬ 
cept him. 

Was he going to Joan’s wedding? She had 
just received her invitation. She scrutinised 
him sharply. 

He did not answer. He was suddenly keenly 


THE SILKEN SCARF 


135 


interested in watching Jerry chase a pebble 
down the road. 

“If I were in your shoes I shouldn’t go,” she 
continued, with what in anybody less elegant 
would be termed a sniff. 

Still Dickie was deaf. Jerry flew back and 
laid the recovered stone within an inch of his 
master’s brown boot. With loud breathings 
he stretched on the ground surveying Dickie 
with lolling tongue. 

Dickie extended a hypocritical hand. “Good 
dog! ’ ’ The ruse was successful. Jerry jumped 
up. With a swift movement O’Donoghue flung 
the pebble into the field on the farther 
side of the road. At a bound the dog cleared it. 

“Clever, eh, what?” he asked Miss Hilliard. 

She was not to be put off by subterfuge. 
She was well aware of Dickie’s attitude towards 
Joan, and she championed his cause. She had 
the pro-masculine tendency which one often 
finds in unmarried women of mature years. 

“If you take my advice you won’t go,” she 
said. 

He gave in. It was useless to fence with 
Miss Hilliard. “I see no reason why I 
shouldn’t go.” He was rather red. 

She shrugged her lean shoulders. “On the 
other hand, is there any reason why you 
should? In the next world you may be sure 


136 


THE SILKEN SCARF 


V 

punishment and to spare waits you, without 
helping yourself in this! ? ? 

“She wants me to go,” he said simply. 

“I call it exceedingly selfish of Joan,” said 
Miss Augusta sourly. “She is marrying the 
man she wants; surely that should be enough 
for her!” 

In the background the narrow censorious 
windows glittered as though in sympathetic 
condemnation. 

But Miss Hilliard had gone a shade too far. 
Dickie raised his cap and turned on his heel. 
“I must be going,” he said stiffly. 

She watched him till he reached the turn of 
the road. He hesitated there for a moment, 
then turned and waved his hand to her. His 
anger was always short-lived. 

“Drat the boy!” thought Miss Hilliard. 
O’Donoghue was always a boy to her. But 
she returned the salutation. 


CHAPTER XV 


An exclamation of dismay escaped Joan. 

<r Yes?” queried Kitty vaguely. She was en¬ 
grossed with a morning pile of correspondence. 
But a moment later she was thoroughly roused 
from her absorption. 

“Midget, Midget, have mercy on us!” she 
called to her daughter, who was furiously 
attacking the piano in the next room. “Don’t 
play, darling, till we finish breakfast.” 

“Just one teeny, little tune,” the Midget 
called back in that singularly robust voice of 
hers. 

“I would rather you didn’t, sweetheart,” 
her mother begged. 

“Only six—ten—twenty—teeny, little notes, 
mummy!” She waited for no further expos¬ 
tulation. Under the fat fingers the strains of 
“Home, sweet Home” fell like a sledge-ham¬ 
mer. 

Kitty with a smile peeped across the table. 

“Joan, why don’t you say what you are 
thinking—that you wonder why I don’t make 
the Midget obedient?” Putting her elbows on 
the table she propped her chin reflectively 
between her hands. 


137 


138 


THE SILKEN SCARF 


“You know before the Midget came I had 
endless theories about the bringing up of a 
child. She was to see from the first—the very 
first—in fact, the long-clothes period, that one 
meant to be obeyed! And, hey presto, there 
is no further bother, you are obeyed!” She 
shrugged her shoulders in mock despair. “So 
much for theories! It happened that from the 
beginning the Midget failed to see eye to eye 
with me. Wait till you have children of your 
own! ’ ’ 

Children of her own—her children and 
Anthony’s! Suddenly she thrilled with the 
thought of helpless, clinging fingers. 

Kitty caught the flush on her cheeks, she had 
a glimpse of shining eyes. She stretched out 
her plump hand and squeezed Joan’s quickly. 
“My dear, it’s only when you have children of 
your own that you understand what being 
sorry means.” 

“Sorry!” Joan was at a loss. 

“Sorry for all the poor women who haven’t 
got any,” Kitty explained. 

Joan looked down shyly. Her eyes fell on 
the letter by her plate, it reminded her. She 
glanced at Mrs. Craig. “By the way, Kitty, 
this is from Dickie. He arrived in town last 
night and is coming to see me this afternoon. 
What can I do!” 

“Put him off, of course,” said Mrs. Craig 


THE SILKEN SCARF 


139 


promptly. “Anthony is to be here at five 
o ’clock.’ 9 

Joan had just had a wire from him sent off 
from Calais. Not since the day when they had 
bidden each other good-bye in the garden, 
heavy with the warm scent of orange blossom, 
had they met. 

“I don’t quite like to put him off,” Joan 
said slowly; “you see it is awfully nice of him 
to come to the wedding.” 

Mrs. Craig rose. “Very well, tell him he 
must go before five. I have a special engage¬ 
ment for this afternoon or I would promise to 
take him off your hands.” She laughed. 

Joan laughed too. She knew Kitty’s special 
engagement had been made to ensure her meet¬ 
ing with Anthony being quite undisturbed. 
“Kitty, you are a dear!” she said. 

Dickie’s coming was a little bit unfortunate, 
but it could not be helped. Presently she dis¬ 
missed the matter from her mind. 

• •••£• 

Surely there never was a longer morning. 
Joan could settle to nothing. Again and again 
she rehearsed her meeting with Fenwick. She 
pictured how for one second he would stand in 
the doorway gazing across the room at her, then 
how his arms would encircle her in that im¬ 
perious w T ay of his. It was a quality the world 


140 


THE SILKEN SCARF 


resented in him, also he passed as cold and 
proud. Her arms folded across her breast— 
there was so much the more love for her—she 
hugged the thought to her heart. 

Kitty came in and found her gazing out of 
the window. 

‘ ‘ There is going to be a fog, ’ ’ she said. 

Joan started and glanced up at the sullen 
sky. “I believe there is,” she answered. 

Mrs. Craig shook her gaily. “Had there 
been an earthquake, had the High Street gone 
suddenly on fire, you wouldn’t have known it. 
Come down to earth and put on your things, I 
want some shopping done.” 

Joan laughed. She set forth obediently on 
the errands. 

But once again by herself the sense of exalta¬ 
tion seized her. Surely she was on a different 
plane to the people who passed her in the 
street. For them the world was a prosaic place. 
Were any among them to meet in a few hours 
the being who had for them changed the face of 
the whole earth? She glanced across the road 
at St. Mary Abbott’s. This day fortnight she 
and Anthony would be made man and wife 
there. She had refused to be married at But- 
lerstown. On her wedding-day she determined 
that nothing should remind her of the humiliat¬ 
ing past. The dark head was thrown up 
proudly; never again need she pass people with 


THE SILKEN SCARF 


141 


her eyes averted lest she should read pity in 
their glance. 

The fog thickened, it made her eyes smart, 
she was glad to get home. 

After lunch she ransacked her wardrobe, ex¬ 
amining first one frock, then another, trying to 
decide which was the most becoming. She 
shook down her hair and brushed it till it fell in 
thick masses round her shoulders. Then she 
was seized with panic, supposing Anthony 
should catch an earlier train and she should not 
be ready to greet him? Quickly she coiled it up, 
her fingers shook so that she could scarcely hold 
the pins. 

By half-past three she was ready. Kitty and 
the Midget had gone out. She moved restlessly 
from room to room. Dickie ’s coming irked her. 
Suddenly she determined to send a wire to put 
him off. It was in the maid’s hands when she 
changed her mind. She would not send it. It 
might not reach Dickie in time, he probably 
would be out. It was better to expect him defi¬ 
nitely than to be in uncertainty. 

She looked critically at the little drawing¬ 
room. In spite of the bright fire it looked cold 
and unfriendly. The walls were papered white, 
the chairs upholstered in chintz of faint tones. 
In summer it was cool and restful, but this after¬ 
noon, with the yellow fog creeping through the 
chinks of the window, the effect was chilling. 


142 


THE SILKEN SCARF 


She regretted that in place of the armful of pale 
pink chrysanthemums which she had bought 
she had not chosen copper or vivid yellow. 
Then she laughed softly to herself; she wanted 
all the colour she could encompass on this meet¬ 
ing with her lover. Suddenly she bethought 
herself of the draperies she had bought in the 
little dark Maltese shop. She fetched them 
from her room, and flung them over the chairs. 

Standing a little away she criticised the ef¬ 
fect. Undoubtedly it was warmer than the 
washed-out rosebuds. Something lay in a soft 
heap on the floor. She stooped and picked it 
up, and idly shook it out. 

It was the white silken scarf with the em¬ 
broidered ends. 

It fell suspended from her wrist. She stood 
reflecting. How bewildering had been alike the 
repulsion and the fascination exercised on her 
by that length of silk! Since its purchase it 
had lain at the bottom of her trunk; only at odd 
intervals did she remember it, and then always 
with a sense of discomfort. She was sorry that 
to-day of all days it should have forced itself 
upon her recollection. She glanced again at it. 
To her dismay her old discomfort was filling 
her. Why had she not burned it! Suddenly 
she flung it on the writing-table. Discomfort 
had changed the repulsion. 

With difficulty she turned her eyes away, but 


THE SILKEN SCARF 


143 


presently they wandered back. The scarf 
trailed from the table, the delicate tints were 
swallowed up in one dark jagged patch. Was 
it in her imagination or had the colours in the 
Moorish draperies dimmed? Was the firelight 
paler; did the silver on the tea-table hold no 
sparkle? Had every vestige of colour in the 
little room concentrated in one dark patch? 

The door bell rang. It was a relief when 
Morris announced Dickie. Both hands out¬ 
stretched she greeted him. 

“Dickie, how dear of you to come!” 

It was pleasant to see him again, pleasant to 
hear his lazy voice—pleasant after that moment 
of panic. Yes, it had amounted to panic. It 
was good to feel his matter-of-fact presence. 
He always smelt of tobacco, of open air, he sug¬ 
gested absolute sanity. 

For a moment he held her hands in silence. 
Then he managed to get through his congratu¬ 
lations. 

“Fenwick is—well, he’s the luckiest fellow I 
know—but he’s a rattling good sort—almost, 
almost good enough for you, Joan!” 

His face, which she noticed was a little thinner 
than before, smiled with all his old kindliness. 

“Dickie—dear!” she said gratefully. 

His effort to be loyal cost him something. 
While she poured out tea he passed his hand¬ 
kerchief across his forehead. Then he watched 



1U 


THE SILKEN SCARF 


her surreptitiously. There was a new softened 
light in her eyes; it made her infinitely more 
lovely. 

When she handed him his cup she caught a 
glimpse of his wistful eyes. She talked quickly 
of whatever came uppermost—of Malta, the 
voyage home, the Craigs, the arrangements for 
the wedding. She went from subject to subject. 
All the time she was conscious of his eyes. His 
gaze made her uncomfortable. 

He put down his cup; he had not made a pre¬ 
tence of drinking. Then there was a long 
pause. Joan could think of nothing else to say. 

The clock chimed the quarter to five. In a 
few minutes Anthony would be here. Dickie 
knew it, she had told him. A swift flash of 
anger rose in her against him, he ought to go. 

Still Dickie sat silent. The tension grew. 

“ Dickie-” Joan began. She tried to 

screw her courage to the point of dismissing 
him—it was intolerable that she should not 
await Anthony free from strain. Then her 
heart failed, he looked so utterly miserable. He 
was behaving very badly, but love had taught 
her sympathy. 

Five struck. Her ears were stretched for the 
sound of a taxi flying down the road. She 
really must tell him to go. 

‘‘Dickie, Anthony will be here directly ,’ 7 she 
said gently. 



THE SILKEN SCARF 


145 


He stood up. “Well, good-bye, Joan, wish 
old Fenwick luck for me.” He tried to speak 
cheerily. It hurt her to see how he failed. 

“Good-bye, Dickie,’’ she said. 

And still he didn’t go. He did not seem able 
to tear himself away. 

‘ ‘ Good-bye, Dickie , 9 ’ Joan repeated. She was 
infinitely distressed for him—but would he 
never gof 

“Well, I must be off.” He moved to the 
door. 

Joan heaved a secret sigh of thanksgiving. 

The dusk had fallen, the room lay in pleasant 
shadows, in the warm twilight of friendship. 

O’Donoghue’s hand was on the door when a 
jet of gas spurted from a coal. He turned in¬ 
voluntarily to look. A shaft of light played on 
the trailing length of silk. His eye travelled 
from corner to corner of delicate embroidery, 
then they rested on the jagged patch. Where 
had he seen a scarf of this description? A 
jangling chord of memory woke—an unwelcome 
chord. 

His hand fell from the door; he crossed the 
room and picked up the scarf. “Where did you 
get this, Joan?” he asked. 

She was watching him with puzzled eyes, her 
heart was beating rather fast, why did Dickie 
want to know? 

“I bought it in Malta,” she answered. 


146 


THE SILKEN SCARF 


“Malta!” he repeated, “Malta!” 

Her vague uneasiness grew. “The old 
woman who sold it to me told me the story at¬ 
tached to it.” 

“Yes, go on!” he said abruptly as she paused. 

“It had to do with a priest who was found 
murdered in the Church of St. Maria.” 

Then he did know something about this hate¬ 
ful scarf! It slid from his fingers. She noted 
his swift recoil. 

She took a step nearer to him. “Dickie,” 
she said nervously, “is it possible you know 
something of the story?” 

He managed a forced laugh. “Me? How 
should I know anything? I—er—I am only a 
little surprised you keep a nasty thing like that 
about the place. A bit grizzly, what?” He 
stooped and replaced the scarf on the table. It 
hid his face from Joan effectually. But her 
suspicions were not allayed. 

“Dickie, you do know!” she insisted. 

Round the comer from the High Street a taxi 
came flying down the road. It pulled up out¬ 
side, a door opened, shut. It must be Anthony. 

Joan stood listening transfixed. She had for¬ 
gotten the scarf, forgotten Dickie’s very 
presence. 

He watched her. Her eyes were shining; on 
either cheek a brilliant spot of rose burned. 
The soft curve of her breast rose and fell swiftly 


THE SILKEN SCARF 


147 


below the black draperies. The slim neck was 
bare, its whiteness was accentuated by tapering* 
jet earrings. A scent of violets hung about the 
dark hair. She wore no jewellery save her en¬ 
gagement ring. 

Greedily he took in all the details. It was 
unpardonable of him not to go, but still he 
waited, while the hail door was opened and shut, 
till feet came quickly along the narrow hall. In 
another second Fenwick w T ould be in the room. 

A paroxysm of jealousy seized him; she had 
completely forgotten his presence. She waited 
with that light in her eyes, oblivious of every¬ 
thing in the world except Fenwick. He grasped 
her hand and crushed it till the upstanding dia¬ 
monds must have been pressed into her flesh. 

“Good-bye, Joan,” he muttered. 

But she felt no pain. Neither did she hear 
him. 

The door opened. 

Dickie could wait no longer. He passed out, 
brushing shoulders against Anthony. 

He too was blind to his presence. 


CHAPTER XVI 


Mechanically he said good afternoon to the 
maid who opened the door. Equally mechani¬ 
cally he allowed himself to be shot down to the 
hall in the lift. In spirit he was in a room where 
a man and woman, oblivious of everything 
in the world save their two selves, sat close to¬ 
gether. In a room where the firelight quivered 
in the shadows—on the silver—on a silken scarf. 

The scarf!—the silent witness of murder. 
Then he pulled himself up with a shock. Mur¬ 
der ! Of course it was not murder—no court of 
law could dream of convicting Fenwick on such 
a charge. Of course it was not murder. Merci¬ 
fully an accident had prevented that —most 
mercifully. 

As he walked on with his eyes bent to the 
ground a thought obtruded itself. It was 
hideous, a whispering of the devil. He shrank 
from it, hurled it away, stamped upon it, fought 
it down. 

He continued his way up the High Street, 
blindly pushing people out of his path. He was 
blind to their presence; for him to-night none 
save Joan and Fenwick existed. 

He hurried along Kensington Gore—that 

148 


THE SILKEN SCARF 


149 


neighbourhood so opulent that it has smothered 
romance—on to Knightsbridge, where incoming 
streams from each corner of the compass lend 
life a wider outlook. Here the happening of 
great issues—alike good and bad—is conceiv¬ 
able. Romance mates more readily with ex¬ 
tremes; smugness holds the one key that will 
not turn its lock. 

Now he passed through Piccadilly. Till now 
the luxury of Clubland, its easeful atmosphere, 
had held him childishly enthralled; to-night they 
failed in their appeal. With bent head he has¬ 
tened on till he reached the stillness of St. 
James’s Square. 

Of all London’s great squares this breathes 
the most subtle atmosphere. Here a house 
stands wrapped in brooding darkness. What 
thoughts—passionate, despairing, sinister—en¬ 
velop it? There from an open doorway a flood 
of light pours joyously forth to settle in a gleam¬ 
ing pool on the shining asphalt. In the lights 
and shadows can be read the whole gamut of 
human life. And there in the centre through 
the branches of the trees lights glimmer, guiding 
the complex message of the square to the heart 
of the passer-by. 

Here the voice that had never ceased whisper¬ 
ing at O’Donoghue’s ear trumpeted forth its 
base suggestion in all its nakedness. He halted 
in a deep shadow and listened. 




150 


THE SILKEN SCARF 


Why should he not tell Joan the history of the 
scarf—the history as it might have been —if ac¬ 
cident had not intervened? 

His forehead was damp, spite of the sharp 
autumn air. 

Suddenly, with horrified revulsion of feeling, 
he thrust from him the evil whispering. 

From the shadow he stepped into a pool of 
light. 


CHAPTER XVII 


“ Joan!” 

From the doorway his eyes found her trium¬ 
phantly. The next minute he was at the 
fireplace where she stood with her hands out¬ 
stretched eagerly. 

She was in his arms held close, so close that 
she could hear the tumultuous beating of his 
heart. His lips were pressed upon her mouth, 
her eyes, her soft throat. “Joan, my love, my 
darling! How I have longed for you, ached 
for you. You have wanted me too, my 
darling ?” 

‘ ‘ Wanted you! Anthony, how can you ask ? ’ ’ 
She pressed closer to him. “Dear, we shall 
never be separated again ? I couldn’t bear it— 
oh, my dear, how I have wanted you!” 

He laughed happily. “We shall never be 
separated again. We shall always be together, 
dearest, my dearest!” He drew her down on 
the couch, his fingers twined round hers, his 
face held against hers. 

So they sat, perhaps for five minutes. It 
may have been an hour. At last she came 
down to earth. “Anthony, don’t you want 
tea?” 


151 


152 


THE SILKEN SCARF 


‘ ‘ Tea! ’’ lie scoffed. ‘‘ Tea! When for seven 
long months I have lived for this moment!” 
He looked at her. The eyes judged cold by the 
world were not cold now. 

She smiled happily and nestled back. Her 
fingers loosed from his; they crept up till they 
reached his heart. 

“Anthony, this is for always—always! 
Nothing now can ever part us!” she said 
exultingly. 

“Nothing, dearest, nothing!” His voice 
echoed her triumph. 

Over her head his eyes wandered across the 
room. They rested on the scarf. 

• • • • • • 

Petrified they stared. Among a hundred 
others he would have recognised that trailing 
length of silk. Every incident of that grim 
afternoon ten years ago was fresh in his mind 
now as then. Still he remembered how one 
heavy strand of hair loosed and fell across Car- 
lotta’s forehead; he recalled the clamminess of 
the hands which clutched his in desperation; the 
scarf which slipped from her shoulders to the 
floor. Again he visioned it lying there, one 

corner dyed red- And they had forgotten 

it—a piece of damning evidence—what unut¬ 
terable folly! 

And Joan—how had the abominable thing 




THE SILKEN SCARF 


153 


come into her possession? That her fingers 
should touch it was desecration. 

He put her from him abruptly and walked to 
the fire. 

She followed, rather bewildered. “ Anthony, 
you are not ill?” she asked anxiously. 

He pulled himself together. He was cold, he 
might have caught a chill in the train, but it 
was nothing to worry about, he assured her. 

“You are sure it is only a chill?” His man¬ 
ner was strange, he had not succeeded in allay¬ 
ing her anxiety. 

“Really it is nothing, dear.” He stooped to 
the fire. He did not care to meet her eyes. 

She pulled a chair forward and began to fuss 
over him. “You must go back to your hotel 
and get straight to bed—promise, Anthony?” 

Suddenly a tender smile curved her lips; she 
dropped on her knees and rubbed her cheek to 
and fro against his knee. 

“Had it been this day fortnight I should be 
looking after you myself.” She laughed 
tremulously. “Anthony, this day fortnight I 
shall be your wife! ’ ’ 

“This day fortnight,” he repeated slowly. 
Between his face and hers he visioned a length 
of stained silk. 

Presently she jumped to her feet. She re¬ 
membered she had some remedy for a chill in 


154 THE SILKEN SCARF 

her bedroom. How delightful it was to fuss 
over him! 

He turned his head to watch her cross the 
room. There was never undue haste about 
Joan; all her movements were graceful and 
leisurely. She kissed her hand to him from the 
door. “I shan’t be more than a minute, dear.’’ 
Then she had gone. He heard the click of her 
heels in the hall. 

It was a relief to be alone; he drew a deep 
breath. Swiftly he went to the writing-table 
and picked up the scarf. Bah! how had Joan 
come by this accursed thing? 

The veins swelled on his forehead, his heart 
beat like a sledge-hammer. Remembrance 
pressed heavily upon him. He did not hear a 
step outside and the door open. He did not 
know that Joan had returned and was staring 
at him transfixed. 

“Anthony!” At her touch he started vio¬ 
lently. Her voice was sharp with fear. “An¬ 
thony, why do you look like that ? 9 9 Her hands 
trembled. With a gesture of repulsion she 
pointed to the scarf. “Is it possible you know 
something about that hateful thing?” Then 
she pulled herself together and tried to laugh. 
She felt she was being foolish, even melodra¬ 
matic; she forced herself to speak more natur¬ 
ally. “I suppose I am being very stupid. I 
only asked, dear, because when Dickie 0 ’Donog- 


THE SILKEN SCARF 


155 


hue was here just now he caught sight of it and 
he seemed rather—rather upset .’’ The utter 
inadequacy of the word pulled her up. She re¬ 
called O’Donoghue’s involuntary recoil, and 
how the silk had slid from his hand. Again an 
unreasoning fear seized her. It would not be 
denied. 

“Anthony!” She slipped her hand into his 
and leant against him. “There is something. 
What is it? You look as Dickie looked, ahnost— 
frightened .” She brought out the word with 
an effort and instantly her own fear grew more 
concrete. ‘ ‘ Anthony, tell me, what do you know 
of this horrible scarf?” 

• • • • # • 

In the little white drawing-room, its outline 
slightly blurred by the fog that crept in through 
the windows, at the moment when he and she 
had climbed almost to the greatest summit of 
their happiness, he looked into her eyes and 
lied. 


CHAPTER XVIII 


He had gone. 

She sat by the fire, her arms hanging listlessly 

by her sides. He had lied- Anthony, on 

whose word she would have staked her soul. 
Why? 

She recalled his words. The scarf merely re¬ 
minded him of one he had seen before. The 
scarf! in heaven’s name, why had she ever 
bought it? She clenched her hands together. 
With a sickening of heart she remembered how 
he had stumbled over his explanation, how he 

had attempted to rally her- And all the 

time his eyes held horror! 

She had made a pretence of belief. How 
could she do otherwise? But all the time she 
knew he lied. Again she asked—Why? 

Suddenly she jumped to her feet. She was 
behaving infamously. What right had she to 
doubt him? Had he ever by so much as a word 
given her cause for distrust ? 

Oh, but she was ashamed, bitterly ashamed of 
her—her suspicions. Yes, she had actually sus¬ 
pected Anthony! It was incredible. She was 
humbled to the dust. Had he guessed her 

doubt? Tf so, how could she possibly make suf- 

156 




THE SILKEN SCARF 


157 


ficient atonement? She would write at once. 
Morris should take the letter in a taxi—there 
must not be an instants delay. What if she 
had hurt him? She hurried to the writing- 
table— 

The scarf trailed from it. The strange 
jagged patch stared up—foreboding—sinister. 
It held her spell-bound. Slowly her hand 
stretched out—it fastened round the silk—she 

stood gazing—fascinated—repelled- 

• • • • • • 

The room was slipping from sight—the fire 
—the silver on the tea-table. The voices from 

the street were silenced. She was out—out- 

Where? 

• , • • • a 

Now she was fighting—fighting with all her 
strength. She was calling on God to help her 
—to hide the horror that was stealing—stealing 
—from out the darkness. 

All round was void, indescribably terrifying. 
She was outside the world where one can touch 
and see and hear. But she could feel—with an 
intensity she had never know. Things—dread 
things—were close—they pressed closer— 
closer. And though she could neither hear nor 
see them, she knew they had power to tear aside 
the veil- 

“God! God! I do not want to see! I do 
not want to hear!” 







158 


THE SILKEN SCARF 


The words were strangled in her throat. In 
this awful world of void there were no voices, 
no sound of any kind, nothing but consciousness 
—flaming — piercing — turbulent — appalling. 
Nothing was visible but stupendous void—black 
—illimitable. 

Then slowly—slowly—each second was an 
eternity—an eternity of hell—the darkness 
lifted—the veil was being drawn aside—shapes 
were revealing themselves—vague—nebulous— 
shadowy—assuming substance- 

She was suffocating. Oh, if she could get 

back to the world of sight and sound- 

“God! God!” 

• • • • • • 

The struggle ended. She had passed from 
the void. 

Now she was in a street. There were steps, 
innumerable steps. Hot sunshine poured down; 
all round was gorgeous colour. She climbed up, 
up—surely she had done this before % She came 
to a church; that too was familiar. She paused 
by the steps, then shrank away. She would not 
mount them, in that church horror waited—she 
would not go in. 

An unseen power urged, impelled. 

She struggled, she would not yield. 

Bands of iron drew her, robbed her of will. 

For the last time she struggled- 








THE SILKEN SCARF 


159 


The sunshine, the street of steps, the colour, 
all had gone. Once more she was out in the 
hideous void. 

‘‘1 will not go in! I will not! ’ ’ 

Again the words were strangled in her throat 
—again that suffocation- 

The struggle was over. She was beaten. 
The void swept by. 

She stood inside a thickly leather-padded 
door. The church lay very still. It was filled 
with shadows. 

Presently through the dimness she saw two 
men crouching behind a pillar. They were 
gazing intently up the nave. Her eyes followed 
theirs. They came to where a woman knelt. 
There they rested. 

The stillness grew. She waited, unable to 
utter a sound, to move hand or foot. Strange 
thoughts passed through her mind. When the 
spirit leaves the body does it come back to 
earth, and unseen, voiceless, for ever wander in 
a region that robbed of sound is nothing but a 
phantasmagoria ? Do the dead lift up unending 
prayer for the gift of hearing? Was she al¬ 
ready dead? 

Frenzy seized her—She must get back. She 

tried to scream- 

• • • • • • 

Yet again there was that awful strangulation. 
Again she was out in that awful void that held 




160 


THE SILKEN SCARF 


nothing—and yet held everything. A few mo¬ 
ments and the struggle ended as before. 

Now she was crouched on the floor inside the 
padded door. 

And the silence grew and grew. 

#••••• 

Suddenly sound returned. It was sound such 
as she had never known; it swept from end to 
end of the great arched church; it pulsed—vi¬ 
brated—thundered. 

Still she was chained, hands, feet, head. Only 
her eyes could move. 

Now they riveted themselves on the men wait¬ 
ing tensely in the shadows. Surely those 

figures were familiar—surely one was- She 

couldn’t think. All her past was blotted out— 
but she must remember—she must - 

It was torture to be unable to pierce memory. 

The woman in the nave rose suddenly from 
her knees. A silken scarf draped her shoulders. 

The blood coursed furiously in Joan’s 
temples. Somewhere in that forgotten life of 
hers she had seen that scarf—had touched it. 
Oh, if she could find the strength to brush aside 
the veil—but she was chained, gagged, fettered 
with invisible bands- 

The horror heightened—it battered against 
her—enveloped her—sucked her down into a 
maelstrom from whence there was no escape. 

It reached its apex. She could bear no more. 





THE SILKEN SCARF 


161 


She knew she was in deadly danger. If she 
drifted again into that awful world of void she 
would never return from it. Brain—heart— 
limbs—strained against those bands. To whom 
would the victory go ? 

Suddenly the church woke to tumult. Figures 
flashed by—there was a shriek—a woman stood 
with horrified, uplifted hands. Two men were 
struggling—one found the other’s throat- 

At last voice returned. 

“Anthony! Anthony!” she shrieked. 



CHAPTER XIX 


4 ‘ J oan ! What is it ?’ ’ 

Joan opened her eyes. She was lying on the 
sofa. How did she come there? She had no 
recollection. Kitty was bending anxiously over 
her. 

She made an attempt to sit up. Her forehead 
was knit; what had happened? Something 

dreadful—terrifying- Why could she not 

remember? 

“I must have been asleep, Kitty,” she said. 
Her voice was full of doubt. “I dreamt—I 
dreamt”—oh, what had she dreamt? What 
burden weighed her down? It was comforting 
to see Mrs. Craig; to feel her cool, strong hands 
after coming back from—from- 

Ah! now she remembered. There was a 
church—it was filled with shadows—there were 
men crouching. Oh, God, she had recognised 
the face of one. Had she only dreamt? 

Her face suddenly pinched, her fingers tight¬ 
ened their grip on Mrs. Craig. “Kitty,” she 
said, shuddering, “I have been in hell.” 

“In hell!” 

Mrs. Craig started violently, Joan’s voice 

162 




THE SILKEN SCARF 


163 


held such horror, then she recovered herself. 
She sat down on the sofa and slipped an arm 
round Joan. 

“My dear child, you are talking nonsense, 
utter nonsense! I’ll tell you what’s the matter, 
you are simply overwrought. You ate no 
breakfast, no lunch, and, I imagine, no tea, with 
the result that you fainted. Very prosaic, but 
the truth! ’ ’ 

Joan shook her head. Kitty pretended not 
to see. She was privately a little alarmed. 

“Tell me about Anthony. How is he?” she 
was determined to keep to the matter of fact. 

Joan answered dully. “He’s quite well—no, 
he has a chill. ’ ’ 

The chill did not account for Joan’s manner, 
Mrs. Craig promptly decided, but she persisted 
in lightness. “He’s longing of course for the 
wedding to be over, like any other man in his 
shoes!” she laughed. 

“ Yes, ” said Joan, quietly. Then after an al¬ 
most imperceptible pause: “When it is over.’’ 

For some indefinable reason Kitty’s heart 
sank. 

“Now, Joan, off to bed with you.” Out¬ 
wardly she betrayed no misgivings. “I’ll ring 

for Morris- Oh, here’s the Midget, she can 

tell her. Midget, run into the kitchen-” 

“Yes, mummy, one minute.” She hopped 
across the room to the sofa. The eyes set far 




164 


THE SILKEN SCARF 


apart in the broad face looked down inquisi¬ 
tively at Joan. 

“ Joan, what does it feel like to faint? Does 
it make you sickie? I’d love to faint. Oh, 
what’s that?” She picked up the scarf from 
the floor and twisted it round her head. 

“Midget!” Joan collected all her forces. 
Leaning forwards she pulled the silk from the 
child. “Don’t dare to put it on you!—don’t 
even touch it! ” 

Aghast the child looked at her. Never in her 
life had she heard her “dear, sweet Joan” use 
such a tone. Kitty stared too. 

“I am sorry,” Joan faltered, “forgive me, 
Kitty, I am not myself. ’ ’ 

“Run away, Midget,” said Kitty to the Mid¬ 
get, who was gazing open-mouthed. For once 
her daughter obeyed her on the instant. She 
took one look back from the door, Joan was sob¬ 
bing in long, shuddering gasps, then she fled. 

“Joan, you are not to be foolish, it is unlike 
you to be hysterical,” Kitty said gently. She 
waited, and after a moment Joan quieted. 

“Kitty”—she pointed to the scarf, lying in a 
tumbled heap, and Mrs. Craig wondered at the 
expression in her eyes—was it horror?—“burn 
it—give it to Morris to burn —at once , please.” 

‘ i Of course, dear. ’ ’ Mrs. Craig rang the bell. 
She was completely bewildered. 


THE SILKEN SCARF 


165 


An hour later slie left Joan in bed and sought 
Oliver. 

He was dressing for dinner. In his wife’s 
present state of mind such an everyday pro¬ 
ceeding was a relief. 

On her entry he wheeled round. “Look here, 
Kit,” he said indignantly, “I’d back those peo¬ 
ple in the Haymarket for being the most con¬ 
founded asses! Look at this!” He held up a 
shirt. “Every blessed button-hole miles too 
small! ’ ’ He hacked the one in his hand with a 
pair of nail scissors. “I’ll shove the whole lot 
back to ’em to-morrow. ’ ’ 

She sat down on the edge of the bed. Of what 
moment w T ere button-holes? “Oliver,” she 
asked solemnly, “do you believe in witchcraft?” 

He was too engrossed for the moment to an¬ 
swer. One final tweak of the scissors and the 
stud was through the hole. He held the shirt 
triumphantly aloft. 

“Tell you what it is, Kit, button-holes matter 
a considerable deal more than witchcraft!” 

She did not laugh in response. With puck¬ 
ered forehead she watched him insert his sleeve- 
links. 

“Eh, Kitty?” He glanced at her, then 
crossed the room, sat down and shook her 
gently. 

“Kit, what’s all this rubbish?” 


166 


THE SILKEN SCARF 


“Joan has been in a trance or something 
equally horrible—I don’t know.’ 7 

Was she really serious? He studied her for 
a moment, then exclaimed impatiently, “A 
trance! I thought Joan had long ago forgotten 
all that idiotic nonsense. What on earth’s 
wrong with her?” 

“It was just after Anthony left—about half 
an hour. I was taking off my things when I 
heard a shriek in the drawing-room. It was 
Joan’s voice, and yet it wasn’t—it was dreadful 
—it made my blood curdle. I rushed in and 
found her lying insensible on the sofa.” 

“She fainted,” said Major Craig calmly, 
“you imagined the scream.” He returned to 
his toilet. 

“It was Joan!” Mrs. Craig said vehemently. 
“And it was not a faint. Do people in faints 
scream as if all the devils in hell were pursuing 
them ? ’ ’ 

Major Craig jerked his braces over his shoul¬ 
ders. “My dear Kitty, how could it have been 
anything but a faint?” 

In her impotence to convince him, Kitty beat 
her hands on the counterpane. “Oliver, don y t 
be so pig-headed! Have I not told you times 
beyond mind that Joan is psychic?” 

Hair-brush in hand he faced her squarely. 
“I have always warned you that it is the height 
of folly to believe in that rubbish.” 


THE SILKEN SCARF 


167 


“Very well, we won’t argue about it now,” 
she rejoined. “But what do you make of this! 
She is going to send a wire first thing in the 
morning to—Dickie. Now, why to Dickie!” 

He shrugged his shoulders and slipped on his 
waistcoat. “Some whim, I suppose. I credited 
Joan with more sense.” 

Suddenly her eyes filled. i * Oliver, do be nice! 
I have a feeling that—that the wedding won’t 
come off, after all.” Her voice quavered. 

He tucked her arm comfortingly into his. 
“Kit, I won’t have you being silly and supersti¬ 
tious. You are making mountains out of mole¬ 
hills.” 

She rubbed her cheek softly against his. 
“Mark my words, Oliver, I have grounds for 
feeling uneasy.” 

“Mark my words,” he imitated her gaily, 
“in the morning we shall have Joan telephoning 
first thing to Anthony!” 

But in spite of himself he did not feel alto¬ 
gether comfortable; on more than one occasion 
he had “marked” his wife’s words and—coin¬ 
cidence or not—subsequent events had proved 
their value. 


CHAPTER XX 


‘ 1 Dickie ! I implore you to tell me!” 

Her mouth was twisted. Her hands were 
pressed painfully one against the other. 

The silence was broken only by the ticking of 
a clock. Each beat marked the travailing of a 
soul. 

On his answer hung her future. He knew it. 
What was that answer to be ! 

He stared down on to the white road. A 
milkman was going his rounds. Two girls, 
laden with flimsy packages, disappeared, chat¬ 
ting and laughing, into a doorway opposite. 
From a flower-seller at the corner a woman was 
making her choice of chrysanthemums. He 
watched her, weighing with curious intentness 
the chances of yellow against bronze. Life was 
quite normal—vaguely he sensed it. Also he 
sensed vaguely that he and Joan were border¬ 
ing on the melodramatic. He pulled himself 
together. Hang it all, he was not a cur; he had 
always done 4 ‘the decent thing”—he would do 
it now. 

He wheeled to face Joan. 

“Joan, what is there to tell you! I know 
nothing .’ 9 


168 


THE SILKEN SCARF 


169 


“ Dickie, you do know—I must hear the 
truth . 1 ’ Her voice was harsh. The agony of a 
night of torture had left its mark upon her face 
—the agony which had compelled her to an act 
of treachery against her lover. 

He moved a step nearer. “Joan, be reason¬ 
able ; how can I tell you the truth when I don ’t 
know what you are talking about ?” He forced 
a laugh. 

She thrust out her hand swiftly—the sound 
was so incongruous. “Don’t, please, Dickie.” 

He shifted from foot to foot. Within him a 
conflict was raging. The balance was still un¬ 
even. One thought remained uppermost, des¬ 
perately he clung to it—he must do the “de¬ 
cent thing.” 

Suddenly she caught his arm. 

“Dickie, you cannot deceive me. For the 
sake of our old friendship—tell me!” 

Sharply the clock slit the silence. 

Never had temptation assailed O’Donoghue 
with such fierceness. The voice of last night, 
with its hideous suggestion, was whispering 
again at his ear. He had but slightly to alter 
facts, and Joan and Fenwick would be separated 
for ever. 

He knew Anthony. Once his pride was 
touched, he would stoop to no explanation. 

The voice grew more insidious. After all, 
Joan had known Fenwick scarcely a year. She 


170 


THE SILKEN SCARF 


would forget—perhaps in time—oh, he could 
wait—years, if need he—she might return some 
of the love he had offered her from the days of 
her childhood—he would be content with so lit¬ 
tle —so little Then he was cursing himself 

for an unutterable scoundrel. He would do the 
“decent thing.” 

He turned abruptly to her. “Look here, 
Joan, I don’t know anything. That scarf— 
beastly thing, why did you ever see it?—re¬ 
minded me of one I had once seen somewhere or 
another—the likeness was rather curious— 
that’s why I asked you about it yesterday. 
That’s all! Now, are you satisfied ? ’ ’ 

Again silence, rent only by that merciless tick, 
tick. 

He shot a covert glance at her. Had his 
words carried conviction? He wheeled again 
to the window—did he wish her to be convinced ? 

She put out her hand and steadied herself by 
a chair. 

“It reminded you of something,” she said 
slowly; “it also reminded Anthony of some¬ 
thing.” She paused. Dickie’s heart was 
thumping. “It reminded you both—of the 
same thing.” 

Low as was her voice, it echoed round the 
walls. 

Before him the window-pane shimmered, the 





THE SILKEN SCARF 171 

street below showed through a blur. His 
temples throbbed. 

She watched him. His hands were gripped 
behind his back. But she saw the fingers 
twitch. 

She nerved herself. She must know the 
truth. 

“Dickie—oh, my God! that I should have to 

ask you such a thing!-” She swayed, 

clutching at the chair. ‘ 4 Is—is Anthony—guilty 
of—murder ?” 

The word quivered—whispered—vibrated— 
hissed—thundered. 

Spell-bound, Dickie stood. How did Joan 
know? Where had she heard? Decision faced 
him; there was no choice but Yes or No- 

Her beautiful eyes were on his, her arms were 
upraised, the sleeves had fallen back, showing 
their soft, white curve. 

Passion swept him. The opportunity was 
his- 

“Dickie, is it true—oh, God, is it true? Say 
it is not true!” In her despair she clung to 

him. 

The “decent thing”—the “decent thing”— 
for the last time he strove. 

The touch of her fingers was on his, the fra¬ 
grance of her dark hair was close to him—it was 
intoxicating- 






172 


THE SILKEN SCARF 


“Dickie—is it true?” 

“ Yes—it is true.” 

• • • • • • 

And the clock ticked without intermittence. 



CHAPTER XXI 


Dinner was a pretence. Anthony pushed hack 
his chair and went into the lounge. 

How often had he pictured this, the first eve¬ 
ning of his return? Passed how or where, he 
had not troubled to think: that he and Joan 
would be together had been enough for him. 

And now he was spending it alone. 

The public rooms of a hotel, the curious sense 
of unreality imposed by an assemblage of 
strangers, provide an excellent atmosphere 
wherein to hold emotion in check. It is stifled 
in the depths of luxurious carpets; ormolu and 
gilt are scornful of anything so primitive: 
against a background of velvet upholstery it is 
an intolerable crudity. 

So Fenwick remained in the lounge till long 
past midnight, crushing back the fear that 
lurked in his heart, trying to persuade himself 
that he had lied successfully to Joan. But at 
last the servants came to put out the lights. 

He found himself in his solitary room. There, 
there lay no distraction from thought. It 
closed ominously on him. 

It was very quiet in the long Harrington 

Road. Like Joan, he too kept vigil. 

173 


174 


THE SILKEN SCARF 


Flinging the window wide, he leant his elbows 
on the sill, and peered ont into the night. 

A gas-lamp shone into his room. Right down 
the road and away, vanishing into the distance, 
stretched continuous lines of houses; blinds dis¬ 
creetly veiled the tall windows. A policeman’s 
tread at intervals heightened the impression of 
orderly routine. 

Recalled amid these prosaic surroundings, the 
scene enacted ten years before in a cool shad¬ 
owed church, in silence, save for one strangled 
scream, seemed like Drury Lane melodrama. 

Suddenly he smiled grimly. Surely the 
people who slept placidly behind those decorous 
blinds might be classified as belonging to the 
conventional Birth, Marriage and Death news¬ 
paper column; he, with his haunting memory, 
fell under the Agony heading. But in his heart 
was little mirth. In Joan’s face he had read 
disbelief this evening. His eyes contracted with 
pain. 

Up and down the room he walked. Which 
course should he follow? Tell her the whole 

story- He paused, then drew a deep breath. 

After all, what was it but a scruple that for so 
long had poisoned his life. It would not have 
lain heavy on the conscience of ninety-nine men 
out of a hundred. And Joan—had she not as¬ 
sured him that nothing—nothing could separate 
them—again he paused—nothing but shame? 



THE SILKEN SCARF 


175 


His lips twitched. She had also said that the 
Valley of Shame was more grievous than the 
Valley of the Shadow of Death. Deep furrows 
showed on his face. Could he ever make her 
understand ? 

Another course lay open. He could add lie 
to lie till he killed the doubt in her. 

Dawn, broke. Still he paced from door to 
window, and so hack stealthily, swiftly, as 
though if he trod heavily the past should wake 
and shout abroad his secret. 

• • » • • • 

Dawn gave place to daylight. London, from 
north to south, from east to west, yawned and 
turned over. The Birth, Death and Marriage 
column was about to resume its functions. 

Anthony had made his choice. Worn out by 
his long vigil he flung himself on the bed. 

Exhaustion overpowered him. But just be¬ 
fore he dropped off to sleep he held out his 
arms. He fancied that Joan crept into them. 

He dreamt- But one never tells a dream of 

perfect happiness, a dream which the angels 
have whispered in our ear, it would be sacrilege. 

A milkman called down the road. Fenwick 
stretched out his hand to touch Joan. Then 
he opened his eyes. 

It was desolating to find his arms were 
empty. 



CHAPTER XXII 


“Mummy, may I go into the drawing-room?” 
The Midget drummed her heels on the floor. 

“No, darling, Joan wants it this afternoon.’’ 

“Well, I think it’s stupid! Why can’t I go 
with Joan? What’s the matter with everybody 
to-day? Everybody looks as if they was ex¬ 
pecting something V ’ 

Mrs. Craig looked up from the book she was 
pretending to read. “What is that yon say, 
Midget ? ’ ’ 

“I say everybody—looks—as—if—they—was 
— ex — pecting — something! ’ ’ Between each 
word the Midget nodded her head defiantly at 
her mother. Then she resumed the irritating 
drumming of her heels. 

The child had spoken the truth. The atmos¬ 
phere of the flat was unaccountably tense. 
Kitty herself w T as on edge; had there been a 
sudden noise she would have screamed. Even 
Major Craig was affected. At lunch his habit¬ 
ual jerky mode of speech became so accentuated 
that his wife could scarcely endure it. Over 
Joan’s head she made him a signal, imploring 

him to silence. But he misinterpreted it and 

176 


THE SILKEN SCARF 


177 


blundered on to heavy witticisms, at which the 
Midget laughed uproariously, and then ag¬ 
grieved demanded why Joan and her mother 
did not laugh too. Altogether it was a most 
uncomfortable meal. Kitty was thankful when 
it ended. Joan went straight to the drawing¬ 
room, and Kitty in the dining-room resigned 

herself to wait. To wait-? What was she 

expecting? For the twentieth time she tried to 
analyse her feelings, and again she could come 
to no conclusion. She could not say why she 
was so convinced that there was something to 
wait for and something that was very unwel¬ 
come. Dickie had arrived this morning in re¬ 
sponse to Joan’s summons. After he had gone 
Kitty had passed Joan in the little hall on her 
way to her bedroom and made some trivial re¬ 
mark to her, but Joan had not replied; she had 
indeed given Mrs. Craig the impression of look¬ 
ing straight through her. And she had volun¬ 
teered no explanation of her summons of 
O’Donoghue. Anthony was coming presently. 
At this point in her reflections Kitty frowned. 
Why should she connect this most natural oc¬ 
currence with an absurd foreboding? And yet 
it was so. She could not divest herself of the 
impression that something was radically wrong 
between Joan and Anthony. She took up a book 
and tried to interest herself in it. 

The door bell pinged, and following it the 



178 


THE SILKEN SCARF 


maid appeared with a parcel. It was for Joan. 
Kitty glanced at it; it was another wedding 
present. And she knew there would be no wed¬ 
ding—yes, she knew that now quite definitely. 
She thrust the parcel in a comer. 

The door bell rang again, and the Midget 
begged to be allowed to go into the hall and 
see who was arriving. “No, Midget, you 
can’t,” Kitty said sharply. She returned to 
her book. Presently she glanced round just in 
time to catch the Midget creeping through the 
door. ‘ 1 Midget! come back directly!’’ said Mrs. 
Craig, shutting her book with a bang. But the 
child had vanished. The door bell rang again. 
Kitty dashed into the hall and seizing her 
daughter pulled her back into the dining-room, 
and then, thoroughly exasperated, shook her 
by the shoulders. It was new treatment to the 
Midget. She stared in blank astonishment for 
a moment at her mother and then set up a howl. 
It brought Major Craig hurrying into the room. 

“What on earth’s the matter?” He looked 
from the Midget to Kitty, who was mopping 
her eyes. She pushed the howling child into his 
arms. 

“Oliver! for heaven’s sake, take her out—to 
Kensington Gardens—to anywhere! only take 
her! ’ ’ She turned penitently to the Midget and 
kissed her. “Mummy is sorry if she was cross, 


THE SILKEN SCARF 179 

sweetheart, but she’s worried. Go out for a 
nice walk with daddy! ’’ 

“But, Kitty, what- 99 Major Craig began. 

His wife flung up her hands in despair. 

“Don’t ask questions, Oliver! But go—for 
heaven’s sake, Go!” Mystified he went. 

When the hall door banged and the last echo 
of the Midget’s voice died away as she went up 
the street with her father, Mrs. Craig sighed in 
the intensity of her relief. Again she settled 
down to wait. 

Oddly enough the atmosphere of expectancy 
spread to the kitchen. When Morris presently 
came to ask if she should serve tea, she spoke 
in an unconsciously subdued voice. Apparently 
she too felt this unaccountable presage. ‘ ‘ Don’t 
bring it till I ring,” said Kitty, and her voice too 
was hushed. When the maid had withdrawn 
silently she suddenly buried her head in the sofa 
cushions and laughed hysterically. Everybody 
was really too idiotic; they were all behaving as 
though there had been a death or some other 
calamity in the house. For the twentieth time 
she tried to read. She really must be sensible. 

But the effort was useless; after a few min¬ 
utes the book slid to the floor. The flat was 
waiting—she must also keep this uncanny vigil. 

At last the tense silence was broken. A taxi 
pulled up at the door. Kitty reached the win- 



180 


THE SILKEN SCARF 


dow just in time to see Anthony jump out. 
Then she heard Morris go to the door. Imme¬ 
diately afterwards footsteps crossed the hall, 
the drawing-room door opened, shut. Then 
stillness. 

The moments went silently by. 

Expectancy reached the pitch of pain. At 
last Kitty felt she could not endure the inaction 
another moment. She opened the door and 
peeped into the hall. From the drawing-room 
she could hear a faint murmur of voices. The 
everydayness of the sound should have been re¬ 
assuring. But it was not. Kitty suddenly be¬ 
came acutely aware of each piece of furniture in 
the little hall; the line of the Sheraton table, the 
curve of the china howl resting on it, forced 
themselves into undue prominence. And surely 
the white striped walls had come closer to¬ 
gether? From a pleasant blur life seemed to 
have transformed itself to harsh outlines. 

Shivering a little Kitty crept back to the 
dining-room. 


CHAPTER XXIII 


“Joax, I have a confession to make.’’ 

She did not move to greet him from where 
she stood by the fireplace, her hands tightly 
gripped resting on a high-hacked chair. Her 
white face was carved to stone. 

As he looked at her Fenwick’s heart sank. 
His confession came too late. She had found 
out. But how? 

He crossed the room and spoke. “Joan—you 
know?” 

“I—know.” The low voice was detached, it 
held absolutely no emotion. Since yesterday 
evening she had travelled far from him. She 
had embarked on one of those invisible journeys 
that freezes with its chill blast of finality. 
Death itself in comparison is but the pain of 
a moment, merely a break, till once again we 
are linked with our beloved in the hereafter. In 
that other journey there is no reunion. 

“How do you know?” The question came 
quick and sharp, speaking the man’s whole 
personality. 

She glanced at him, then looked wearily away. 

She knew—did it signify how? 

181 


182 


THE SILKEN SCARF 


“How?” lie insisted. 

He had the right to question. That she 
conceded. 

“I found out—for myself.” The voice was 
frozen. It stabbed him. 

“Joan-” 

She interrupted: “I found out myself but 
lest—lest I should have done you an injustice” 
—the set face broke. Some of her inward agony 
betrayed itself. Then she regained her com¬ 
posure—“to make quite sure—I asked.” 

“You asked!” 

She choked at the scorn in his voice. 

“Whom did you ask?” Then as she did not 
speak: “Joan, I insist on knowing!” 

In a swift flood of wrath she turned on him. 
“Anthony! you—you lied to me! You—you 
yourself broke my trust in you. Had I not the 
right to make sure that I was not—not making 
some horrible mistake? I asked Dickie. Oh, 
do not blame him—I made him tell me—I re¬ 
fused to take No.” 

Dickie! Dickie, on whom he could have 
staked his soul! He moistened his dry lips. 

“Now I —1 in my turn insist—what did 
O’Donoghue tell you?” 

Beseeching, she flung her hand across her 
eyes. She could not put this awful thing into 
words. 



THE SILKEN SCARF 


183 


He laid his hand on hers. “Joan dear-” 

he began. 

In a flash she had wrenched it from him and 
put it behind her back. 

Then he must not even touch her? And in 
fourteen days she would have been his wife! 

“What did he tell you? Joan, again I in¬ 
sist !” he added curtly. 

She swayed a little. Her eyes were tortured. 
“I asked him—if you—if you—my God, An¬ 
thony, it is too horrible!—I cannot!’ ’ 

“Go on!” he said sternly. In some subtle 
fashion they had changed places. He was now 
the accuser, she the accused. 

‘ 4 If you were—were guilty of—of—murder ! 91 
Her voice was so faint that he could but just 
catch her words. 

“And O’Honoghue—what answer did he 
give?” Anthony waited rigid. 

Again Joan had the sensation of being the 
accused. 

“He said—Yes.” 

• • • • • * 

A pall of silence fell. 

A street organ began to play beneath the 
window. It stripped asunder the silence. 

Suddenly Anthony laughed. Life was going 
on as usual, and he and Joan were about to bid 
each other good-bye—he and J oan! 



184 


THE SILKEN SCARF 


She looked up swiftly, then dropped her face 
between her hands.. 

• • • • • 

The street organ was being trundled down the 
road. A passing errand boy whistled blithely. 
The refrain died away in the distance. Fen¬ 
wick listened. 

Silence fell again. 

He was waging a fierce battle with his pride. 
Drawing aside the muslin curtain, he stared 
through the window. 

Joan still stood by the fire. Her head was 
bowed. Once she moved. His back was to her. 
He did not see the hands ungrip, stretch long¬ 
ingly towards him. It was but for a second. 
Again they clutched the chair. The horror 
deepened in her eyes. She loved him—and he 
was a—murderer. 

Suddenly she dropped on her knees and 
buried her face in her hands. She was afraid 
of herself. She knew that if once she were to 
feel the pressure of his arm, his cheek against 
hers, she must forgive him, she would marry 
him. But she also know that if she did so, life 
would sooner or later turn to dust and ashes. 

He turned from the window. Pride had won 
the day. Unheard, she had condemned him. 
She had not even asked if there were extenuat¬ 
ing circumstances. The lines round his mouth 
hardened. 


THE SILKEN SCARF 


185 


‘ 4 Then, Joan—it is good-bye ?” 

The only answer was a strangled sob. 

He hesitated, looking down at her bent head. 

‘ ‘ Anthony, it—must be—good-bye.’ ’ 

The hands slipped from the chair, she 
crouched lower to her knees. 

His lips trembled; he could not doubt but that 
she loved him. He stretched out his hand, it 
almost rested on her shoulder. Hope was not 
quite dead yet in him. Perhaps even now—now 
at the last moment, she would fling herself into 
his arms and say that she believed in him 
against the whole world. 

Again he waited. Now the silence was broken 
by the street organ playing lower down the 
road. From a near balcony came a woman’s 
light laugh; through the window Fenwick saw 
her leaning carelessly against the railings. 

It was the same window where not so long 
ago Joan had sat one morning and watched the 
curtains balloon inward in the summer breeze. 
Then it had carried with it the fragrance of 
mignonette. The sky’s blue had been flecked 
white. In passionate contrast with the delicacy 
of the tones she had pictured the depth that her 
life with Anthony promised to hold. 

And now the summer breeze, the fragrant 
mignonette, were gone, the sky was grey; in de¬ 
spair the sun had renounced the attempt to 
pierce its pall. 


186 


THE SILKEN SCARF 


Silence dropped again. Fenwick waited till 
it became well-nigh intolerable. Hope was all 
but dead within him. He moved to the door; 
his fingers sought the handle. Then he paused. 
Love blazed up, pressing him sorely, striving 
with all her might to force the barrier of his 
pride. His fingers fell from the door. He 
came back a step into the room. 

“Joan—Joan, my darling!” he whispered 
hoarsely. 

Yearning, his soul reached out to hers. 
Surely her love was as great as his? She need 
but stretch out a hand in token. The next mo¬ 
ment he would be kneeling at her feet—would 
restore her faith in him—made her creep back 
to his heart. 

She raised her head. 

He took a swift step forwards. 

“Joan, my dearest!” 

Their eyes met. Spellbound he gazed at her. 

“ Joan!” 

The cry came from the depths of his being. 
In her eyes was written love. But behind the 
love lay something that shrank—was revolted— 
terrified—something that spelt—horror! 

Horror?—Of him? 

So for a moment they looked at one another. 
Then Joan’s face fell between her hands. 

• • • • • 

She heard the hall door shut. He had gone. 


CHAPTER XXIV 


With the banging of the door some of the nerve- 
racking atmosphere dispelled. 

Kitty shook herself and smiled. Rarely for 
long did her sense of the ludicrous forsake her. 
In her imagination the opening and shutting of 
the front door this afternoon had each time 
punctuated fresh disaster. How utterly stupid 
she had been. Joan and Anthony had had 
merely a lover’s quarrel—though certainly at 
an unlooked-for moment—and Dickie’s evident 
participation was somewhat inexplicable. Still 
Oliver w T as right, Kitty reminded herself, he al¬ 
ways told her she made mountains out of mole¬ 
hills. She smiled again. Now she was going 
to see Joan and be completely reassured. 

She opened the drawing-room door. “An¬ 
other present, Joan!” she announced gaily, 
holding out the parcel that had come earlier in 
the afternoon. “Let’s pray it is not the twen¬ 
tieth clock! ’ ’ 

There was a pause. Mrs. Craig’s heart sank. 
Then Joan looked round from the window. 

“There won’t be any wedding, Kitty,” she 

said. Then she turned dully away. 

187 


188 


THE SILKEN SCARE 


So her misgivings had not been without foun¬ 
dation? Kitty dropped the package she held as 
though it were a bomb. 

“No wedding!” she gasped. “Oh, but, 
Joan, why?—why?” 

There was no answer. Kitty waited a 
moment, then she crossed the room and 
slipped her arm round Joan. “Joan, tell me— 
oh, surely there is some dreadful misunder¬ 
standing! No wedding!—you and Anthony— 
but, my dear, he worships the very ground you 
tread! And as for you-” 

“I love him still.” Joan's voice was tone¬ 
less, but Mrs. Craig noticed that the dainty 
muslin curtain was crumpled to a ball in her 
hand. 

“Then I don't understand,” she said. “Joan, 
why is there to be no wedding? Oh, my dear, 
don't fling happiness away recklessly!” 

Joan wheeled suddenly. “Kitty! From this 
moment I shall never cease to pray that I may 
forget him!” 

“Joan!” Kitty stood petrified. 

“Kitty, this is the last—the last”—she 
paused, struggling for words—“the last time I 
shall ever speak of him, and what I tell you 
now is to go no further. He—Anthony!— 
oh, my God!”—Kitty just caught the broken 
murmur as Joan's face dropped for a moment 




THE SILKEN SCARF 


189 


between her hands—“he has done something 
that I—that nobody conld forgive/’ 

“My dear, my dear, love can forgive every¬ 
thing !” Mrs. Craig said, shakily. 

“Everything! Even—crime?” Joan asked 
harshly. 

Mrs. Craig went white. “Crime!—in con¬ 
nection with Anthony! Joan, do yon realise 
what yon are saying?” 

“I realise—everything. Oh, my God, I wish 
I didn’t!” The eyes that met Kitty’s were 
broken-hearted. 

“Kitty, tell me,” she whispered after a 
moment, when a pin might have been heard to 
drop, “conld yon marry a man if yon fonnd ont 
that he had committed a fearful—a horrible 
sin? Oh, yon couldn’t, yon know yon 
eouldn’t! ” 

Mrs. Craig gathered her forces together. 

“I would marry him if he had broken every 
single one of the ten commandments —if I 
loved him. I should marry him, not his 
virtues nor his sins. I don’t believe in any 
other kind of love. Love has just got to for¬ 
give, or to be capable of forgiving everything.” 

Joan’s face hardened. 

Kitty continued desperately. “Joan, yon 
know I make no profession of saintliness, I 
don’t want to preach, but I always remember 




190 


THE SILKEN SCARF 


one text: ‘Your love shall be made perfect 
through suffering.’ Doesn’t suffering often 
come by holding fast through good report and 
evil report? Joan dear, think!” 

Still the dark eyes did not soften. 

Mrs. Craig caught her in her arms. “My 
dear, my dear!” But there was no response 
from Joan, she looked frozen. Kitty con¬ 
tinued: “If you have kept Anthony on a ped¬ 
estal and have only just discovered that he is 
like most people who spend their time crawling 
round its foot, don’t turn your back on him— 
help him to climb!” 

Joan freed herself quietly from her arms. 
She sat down in front of the fire and gazed 
miserably into it. 

“Do you remember my life at Butlerstown?” 
she asked presently. 

Mrs. Craig knelt down by her. “Why go 
back on it ? That is all past and done with. ’ ’ 

“It is past,” said Joan slowly, “but the 
humiliation remains. It still scorches me.” 

Kitty was dumb. Was Joan’s past always to 
haunt her? 

Joan leant forward. Her hands were 
clenched so that the knuckles stood out blood¬ 
less. “Kitty, I thought that I had bidden 
good-bye to shame—and now—oh, it is cruel! ’ ’ 
Anguish broke up her frozen face. “Kitty, 
since last night I have been asking myself if 


THE SILKEN SCARF 


191 


there can be any God—why does He allow such 
things? Shame—but shame a thousand—a 
million times more shameful, has again over¬ 
taken me ’ ’—her voice broke—‘ ‘ shame wrapped 
round love, and yet you tell me that for the 
sake of that love I must endure a living 
Purgatory!” 

Kitty wiped her eyes. “Dear, I can only 
repeat that love should triumph over every¬ 
thing, it should forgive all.” 

“Every time,” Joan said slowly, “that he 
held me”—she turned her face away quickly; 
it was twisted, she would never again know 
the touch of his arms—“every time I kissed 
him, the remembrance of the awful thing he 
did would rise between us. I would be shamed 
to myself that I could still love him. This time 
the world would be in ignorance, the shame 
would be only mine—but I—I could not bear 
it!” 

Something in Kitty’s face arrested her. 
She held out her arms pitifully. “Don’t judge 
me harshly, Kitty. You think that my pride 
is greater than my love—I can’t help it, I am 
made like that—I shall never feel differently. 
If you knew everything you would feel as I 

do- Kitty”—suddenly she threw herself 

into her arms—“help me, I am so dreadfully 
unhappy! ’ ’ 

The tears ran unchecked down Mrs. Craig’s 




192 


THE SILKEN SCARF 


cheeks. “My dear,” she said, “I am not judg¬ 
ing you”—it was true, she had never in her 
life judged anybody—“but you must try to 
forgive. ’’ 

“I cannot,” Joan whispered. 

The pretty plump arms tightened round her, 
a soft cheek pressed hers. Kitty said no more, 
but in her heart she prayed over and over 
again: 

“God, help her to forgive! Help her to 
forgive!” 


CHAPTER XXV 


Ajfter Joan’s dismissal of him Anthony, mad¬ 
dened with rage, had followed Dickie to his 
rooms in Jermvn Street. One glance at his 
face as he entered sufficed to tell O’Donoghue 
that his treachery was discovered. 

In that tense moment in the little pale sitting- 
room when passion-driven he had yielded to 
temptation, sanity had deserted him. He for¬ 
got that Fenwick w^as bound to find him out. 
But reason awakened later and confronted him 
with the horror of his position. He—would— 
have—to—face—Fenwick. 

Up and down the room he paced, each 
moment realising more painfully the enormity 
of his crime, dreading with an agony of in¬ 
tensity the inevitable meeting with Anthony. 
Once he paused in his frenzied pacing and 
opening a drawer in the writing-table took out 
a revolver. Would he? His fingers crept long¬ 
ingly to the trigger. Just one swift second and 
the problem would be solved, the knot cut. The 
hand crept nearer. Then the revolver dropped 
back into its hiding-place. Dickie had resumed 
his frantic tramping. He had not the courage 
to face death. 


193 




194 


THE SILKEN SCARF 


With blazing eyes Fenwick stood at the door. 
One hand was held behind his back, the other 
was clenched so tight that the straining muscles 
showed taut and ashen. 

“You cur! What have you got to say? You 
—damned cur!” 

What had 0’Donoghue to say? His lips were 
parched, his throat dry. His tongue twisted 
seeking words. But he found none. He was 
bereft of speech, overwhelmed by the shameful 
consciousness that of God’s creatures none was 
lower than he; that never again could he hold 
up his head; that the very women of the street 
would count themselves smirched by contact 
with him; that he was no better than—a 
damned cur. 

“What answer have you?” Like a knife the 
words cut the silence. “What excuse have 
you—you damned scoundrel?” The clenched 
hand shook. “Have you any shadow of ex¬ 
planation? I give you two jminutes. No 
more.” He whipped his watch from his 
pocket. 

Dickie’s hands groped to the chimney-piece 
for support. The sweat rose on his forehead. 
He was summoned to the Court of Appeal. 
But what appeal had he to make? What 
palliation to offer? What could he say? He 
stood speechless. 

The moment of grace passed. The watch 



THE SILKEN SCARF 


195 


shot back into its pocket, Fenwick strode for¬ 
ward. His face was completely transformed. 
Was it possible that Dickie used laughingly to 
describe it as wooden? There was nothing 
wooden about it now. Passion had torn from 
it its habitual mask of reserve. It flamed, 
scorched with illimitable contempt. The eyes 
burnt. Suddenly he wrenched his right hand 
forward, and instantly the thing he held in it 
leaped into the air, curling, writhing, darting. 

Fascinated O’Donoghue watched. The per¬ 
spiration began to trickle down his cheeks. His 
knees trembled. So this last degradation was 
to be his? He was to drink to the dregs the 
cup of humiliation; he was about to be 
thrashed. And the bitterness lay in the realisa¬ 
tion that he deserved it. He had fallen to the 
depths. He was a traitor. 

The whip still quivered in mid air. He could 
not turn his eyes away. 

The street was very still; just for the 
moment not a footfall broke the quiet. Life 
had paused—had narrowed to one fact: he was 
to be beaten like a dog. His teeth chattered. 

Involuntarily he started back; Fenwick was 
approaching. Each movement of his was a 
menace. He jerked his arm higher, gripped 
more tightly the handle of the whip. The lash 
curled- 

Nauseated with humiliation Dickie dragged 




196 


THE SILKEN SCARF 


himself erect; at least he would take his 
punishment like a man. The lash hissed— 
sprang out—almost touched him—it was about 
to twist round his shoulders- 

There was no sound in the room beyond the 
hissing lash and the quick sobbing breath of 
men stirred to the depths of their being. 

O’Donoghue muttered an ejaculation as he 
eased his tense body. Fenwick had flung the 
whip to the farther comer of the room. It lay 
there huddled. He spoke, his voice hoarse 
with passion. 

“I’ll not degrade myself by touching you 
even with a whip, you damned cur! ’ ’ He drew 
in his breath sharply, and spat out his hatred 
—his ineffable scorn. “You—you who posed 
as my friend—my God! fool that I was to trust 
you! ’ ’ 

O’Donoghue’s head sank lower still. Per¬ 
haps Fenwick’s words stung more surely than 
would the lash had it shivered across his 
shoulders. 

Anthony was speaking again. “You have 
won, you scoundrel! You have beaten me. If 
it is any satisfaction to you to know it, I have 
said good-bye to Joan. You understand? This 
is your damned work. Are you proud of your¬ 
self?” 

If only he could undo the past—live over 
again the last few hours. He was stricken with 



THE SILKEN SCARF 


197 


remorse. He tried to speak, but be could not 
articulate. But Anthony caught the drift of 
his meaning. He laughed bitterly. “You sug¬ 
gest I should go back to Joan and— explain! 
You cur! Ho you for one moment suppose that 
I’ll go back and tell her that you lied, like the 
hound you are? For God’s sake, don’t judge 
me by your infernal self! Pshaw! ’ ’ He strode 
to the door and opened it. 

He was going. In another minute he would 
have gone, and with him would go some slight 
measure of O’Donoghue’s shame. At least 
there would be no longer eyes to witness his 
abasement. He fumed to the fireplace and 
gripped the chimney-piece with both hands. 

Would the door never shut? Would he 
never be alone? He concentrated w T ith an 
incongruous concentration on the moment of 
Fenwick’s departure. 

But Anthony did not go. He waited. Pres¬ 
ently Dickie felt himself compelled to turn and 
face him. Fenwick intended that he should. 
With an effort he lifted his head. Fenwick’s 
eyes blazed into his. 

“Listen, O’Donoghue! This is the last time 
your path crosses mine, but remember this—I 
swear before Almighty God”—he flung up his 
hand to accentuate the virulence of the curse— 
“that to the end of my life I’ll pray every day 
that you may be damned eternally! ’ ’ 


198 


THE SILKEN SCARF 


“Damned eternally!” Dickie echoed the 
words dully as the door banged. His damna¬ 
tion had begun. 

Outside in the street footsteps hurried across 
the road. Mechanically he walked to the win¬ 
dow and looked out. The steps were Fen¬ 
wick’s. Dickie watched him turn into the wide 
strip of Arcade leading into Piccadilly and 
disappear. 

His windows faced immediately opposite the 
Arcade. Through the arch he watched the 
traffic slipping by at the farther side, a kaleido¬ 
scope of colour, red, yellow, green, orange, 
sometimes a deep splash of cinnamon. 

His mind just then was not unlike a kaleido¬ 
scope ; through it scurried a jumble of thoughts. 
He started to look for his hat and stick. When 
he found them he began to talk aloud, mum¬ 
bling incoherently: 

“I’ll get a taxi—drive to Fenwick’s hotel— 
catch him there—eat the dust at his feet—make 
good—I swear ” 

The kaleidoscope flashed, twirled. He 
paused, hesitating. Presently his hat rolled on 
to the table, his stick slipped to the floor. 
Hang it all, why should he go? Fenwick and 
he had crossed swords, and he had had his 
punishment. Punishment! He had not known 
till now that punishment could be like hell— 
worse. The lash of Anthony’s tongue still 




THE SILKEN SCARF 199 

scourged, his words still scorched and scarred. 
Would they ever cease to do so? And there 
had been those awful moments when that ac¬ 
cursed whip had hissed, quivered. He looked 
across the room to where it lay huddled in the 
corner. In a paroxysm of fury he kicked it out 
of sight. 

‘ 4 Curse it—and curse Fenwick—curse him!” 
he muttered between clenched teeth. 

Exhausted he dropped into a chair and lay 
back considering. After all, wouldn’t he be a 
damned fool to seek out Anthony and grovel 
before him? He stirred uneasily. Oh, he 
wasn’t excusing himself, he hadn’t a leg to 
stand on, he had behaved like a hound, he was 
horribly ashamed of himself, but—the affair 
was over. Why not leave it at that? Nothing 
that he could say would undo the past. An¬ 
thony had broken with Joan, and he knew his 
damned pride, he had had experience of it. He 
fumbled for his cigarette-case and tried to 
strike a light, but he failed. Presently the floor 
was strewn with spent matches; the cigarette 
lay a tiny heap of frittered brown. 

Before his smarting eyes a vision rose of 
Joan. She looked at him, smiled at him with 
her quaint, twisted smile. He was shaken with 
passion and longing. No! he would not tell 
Joan the truth, as he had firmly resolved to do 
a moment ago, and if she did not learn it from 


200 


THE SILKEN SCARF 


him she would never learn it. His hand shaded 
his eyes, while he allowed his thoughts to forge 
ahead. Joan was young, she couldn’t remem¬ 
ber for ever. In time she would forget Fenwick, 
bury the past. Wasn’t it likely that in time 
she might love again? His breath quickened, 
his pulse began to throb. Might not the time 
come when she would turn to him? What 
would he not give to kiss her mouth, to feel her 
sweet body pressed against his heart, to- 

The kaleidoscope twirled. O’Donoghue was 
on his feet, cramming his hat on his head, rush¬ 
ing down the stairs, through the Arcade. He 
hailed a taxi, gave the driver Fenwick’s address 
and flung himself into a corner of the cab. He 
sat huddled there. Great God, what a black¬ 
guard he was! Now every thought save that of 
remorse, the determination to make what 
amends lay in his power, was swept from his 
mind. He wiped his clammy hands. It was a 
fearful prospect to confront Anthony again- 

Could he do it? 

The taxi sped up Piccadilly, through Knights- 
bridge. With unseeing eyes 0 ’Donogliue stared 
at the brilliantly lit windows. He was consid¬ 
ering the alternative. Just one pull of the 
trigger and there would be an end of everything. 
Why not? He was on the point of giving the 
order to the driver to go back to Jermyn Street 
when the taxi narrowly escaped collision with a 




THE SILKEN SCARF 


201 


lorry. 0 ’Donoghue sank back in his corner. It 
was no use. He could not face death. 

He waited in the lounge of the hotel while the 
servant took his card to Anthony. A few people 
sitting there glanced idly at him. Again per¬ 
spiration stood on his forehead. Were they not 
looking suspiciously at him? It seemed an 
eternity before the man returned. 

“Mr. Fenwick can’t see you, sir.” 

In the immensity of his relief he nearly 
laughed aloud, but directly afterwards he 
winced at the insult conveyed in the curt word¬ 
ing of the message. 

The servant held the glass door obsequiously 
open. Dickie shot him a covert glance. Did the 
infernal sleek-faced brute suspect something 
was wrong? 

He hurried down the steps, beset by a sudden 
fear lest Fenwick should change his mind and 
send after him. Back at South Kensington Sta¬ 
tion he hailed another taxi. Now he was going 
straight to Joan to make a clean breast to her. 

“You cur!—you damned cur!” Anthony’s 
words rang in his ears. Great as had been his 
scorn, what would it be in comparison to Joan’s 
when she learnt the truth? He covered his face 
with his hands. 

At St. Mary Abbott’s he dismissed the taxi, 
deciding to walk the remainder of the short dis¬ 
tance. It would afford him a little more breath- 


202 


THE SILKEN SCARF 


ing space to pull himself together. As he 
neared the house his pace slackened. In less 
than five minutes he and Joan would be face to 
face. He felt physically sick. He was shaking 
violently. He could not face her. He knew 
that when he had told her what he had come to 
say she would order him out of her presence, out 
of her life, for ever. How could he tell her? 
He drew up before a strip of mirror in a shop 
window on pretence of straightening his tie. It 
postponed Nemesis for another minute. 

His face was livid. He walked on slowly, 
reached the entrance to the flat, stood there hesi¬ 
tating, almost choked by the wild beating of his 
heart. The next second he was hurrying back 
up the High Street. He was ill. It was quite 
beyond him to face Joan now; it wouldn’t make 
much difference if he waited till the morning— 
he would come immediately after breakfast. Or 
—a thought struck him, he hugged it with relief 
—he would write, it would be easier, much 
easier, to state his case in writing. 

The bus he took back to Piccadilly was 
crowded. He was thankful; he wanted to feel 
people near him; he dared not be alone. At 
his club he looked into the dining-room; it was 
half empty; he turned away, he wanted people 
—crowds of people. He went on to the Troca- 
dero, and for a time the crowds, the lights and 
the band kept thought at bay. He met a friend 


THE SILKEN SCARF 


203 


after dinner and together they went to the Al¬ 
hambra. Here, again, there was the blessed 
crowd, the comforting contact with humanity. 
At the moment he asked nothing better than to 
spend the remainder of his life in the midst of a 
multitude, never to have time to think. 

And throughout the evening there lurked in 
the background of his mind the spectre of two 
empty rooms waiting for him. 

He couldn’t any longer postpone the moment 
of return. He parted from his friend at Picca¬ 
dilly Circus. Church Lane was deserted, his 
footsteps rang sharply as he went through. 
Were those other steps that followed? He 
glanced across his shoulder, but nobody was 
there. Down the quiet length of Jermyn Street 
the steps followed. He glanced again across 
his shoulder, but the street was empty. He 
shivered. His hand shook as he fitted the key 
in the lock. Up the softly-carpeted stairs the 
steps padded behind him, into the empty rooms 
that showed ghostly in the light of a street lamp 
shining faintly through the windows. At last 
the steps silenced, but he knew they had not 
gone. They had come to stay—he shivered 
again. He knew they would lurk behind his 
chair, ready to pad, to follow, to echo; they 
would share his vigil in the empty rooms. 

Now he was going to write to Joan and 
Fenwick. 


204 


THE SILKEN SCARF 


The hours went by. The floor was strewn 
with paper. Never at any time a writer, the 
letters which he had now to compose were diffi¬ 
cult enough to tax the most resourceful. 

Four o ’clock struck. In desperation he 
pushed back his chair and walked to the table 
where the tantalus was placed. 

He took up his pen again. A fresh pile of 

white littered the floor. What was that-? 

That strange sound-? He turned sharply. 

All was quiet. His heart was thumping madly. 

Had he heard steps-! He poured himself 

out some more whisky. 

That was better. The moments ticked by 
more quickly. 

“Dam’ silly ass, nobody here—nobody .’ 9 He 
lurched about the room. Presently he tripped 
and fell against the table, the ink-pot tipped 
over and a thin black stream trickled on to the 
floor. He laughed immoderately. Then he 
lurched unsteadily into the adjoining room and 
flung himself upon the bed.. 





CHAPTER XXVI 


‘‘Read that!” commanded Miss Hilliard. She 
thrust a letter into Benjamin Carnegie’s hand. 
“It’s invariably the way,” she continued wrath- 
fully, “I have yet to see the married woman who 
isn’t firmly convinced that the unmarried one 
has nothing to do hut fly at a second’s notice to 
the help of every Tom, Dick and Harry who hap¬ 
pens to need her!” 

Mr. Carnegie read the letter through. Then 
he sat silent. The morning’s post had brought 
him a letter from Joan. It hurt him. In it she 
said: “You once told me that summer always 
came after winter. Well, you were right, my 
summer did come—and now it has been snatched 
from me. I think the world is a very cruel 
place.” 

Augusta waited irritably for him to speak. 
Finally she said: “Well, what do you think of 
it?” 

With a start he came back to the present, hut 
his thoughts were astray. “Yes, Augusta— 
of course, Kitty’s letter to you—you were talk¬ 
ing of married women, were you not?” He 
puckered his forehead in bewilderment. “But 

205 



206 THE SILKEN SCARF 

I don’t quite see; Joan is not a married 
woman. ’’ 

She clicked her teeth impatiently. “Don’t 
be stupid, Benjamin! Of course she isn’t mar¬ 
ried—I wish to goodness she was, and I should 
not have been put into this quandary! I am 
talking of mmarried women—spinsters—old 
maids—whatever you like to call us—the women 
past hope of—marriage!”—she emitted a pe¬ 
culiar sound between a snort and a laugh. ‘ ‘ Our 
vocation, it appears, is to go round picking up 
other people’s broken pieces! ’ ’ She flushed in 
her indignation. “And what annoys me most 
is that it is taken absolutely for granted that 
we should do so. It doesn’t occur to anybody 
to be concerned if our private affairs are upset 
or not!” 

Mr. Carnegie glanced hastily again through 
the letter. 

“I see. Kitty wants you when she returns 
to Malta to spend the winter in London with 
Joan.” He glanced anxiously over his spec¬ 
tacles at Miss Hilliard. “Surely, Augusta, 
under the circumstances, you would not dream 
of refusing?” 

She glowered at him. “To tell you the truth, 
Benjamin, I am tired to death of Joan’s whims. 
Here”—Miss Augusta waved a dramatic fore¬ 
finger—“here she breaks off her engagement 


THE SILKEN SCARF 


207 


and refuses to give any reason—probably it is 
some twopenny-halfpenny one!—even Kitty 
doesn’t know it. Here”—the finger circled 
again—“she has her own beautiful home, and 
she says she won’t live in it—and here”—Miss 
Hilliard suddenly stamped—“am I expected to 
shut up my own house for her benefit!” She 
drew herself very erect and clasped her hands 
firmly on her knee. “As she won’t come home, 
let her live by herself!” She shot a glance of 
defiance at Mr. Carnegie. 

“Augusta, you know it is impossible. Joan 
is much too young and too pretty to live alone. 
Surely you cannot weigh your house in the bal¬ 
ance?” he expostulated. 

Her eyes flashed. “Positively, Benjamin, 
men are idiots! One house to them is as good 
as another!” 

“Well, so long as it has a sound roof and four 
walls to shelter, it doesn’t much matter about 
anything else! ” he said tranquilly. 

Really his denseness was criminal. Miss Hil¬ 
lard longed to shake hm. Why her house stood 
to her for a child—better indeed than a child, 
she often assured herself, since children some¬ 
times have a way of turning out unsatis¬ 
factorily. 

She continued to fume in silence. In addition 
to forgoing the joys of her household, her self- 


208 


THE SILKEN SCARF 


sacrifice was out of the limelight—and that was 
where the pinch came—nobody would regard it 
as self-sacrifice. 

“And when do you go, Augusta?” Benjamin 
suddenly straightened himself and faced her. 

“ Go ? Have I said that I would go ? ” she de¬ 
manded angrily. 

“You have not,” he returned, then he smiled 
slowly; “but I have not known you for forty 
years for nothing, Augusta!” 

She eyed him squarely; then the tight line of 
lip relaxed. “Benjamin, how often have you 
kissed the Blarney Stone?” 

He laughed a little—the pleasant sympathetic 
laugh of an old man who has found life worth 
the living. 

“Never!” he said. “But—always I have 
known that you had a heart of gold, Augusta! ’ 1 

“I have heard you say that about a good 
many women, ’ ’ she responded curtly. 

He raised his old grey hat gravely. ‘ ‘ Every 
woman is born with a heart of gold . 19 

“Humph,” said she, “very often, it appears 
to me, the devil makes haste to change it to one 
of brass—or stone! ’ 9 

“Augusta”—now he was smiling—“the devil 
overlooked you ! 9 9 




CHAPTER XXVII 


The “covered car” which was to convey Miss 
Hilliard to the station was waiting. 

She was making a final tour of her house. 

Numerous had been the arrangements attend¬ 
ant on her departure. The demolition was com¬ 
plete and intensely depressing. An inhospi¬ 
table frontage of brown paper was presented 
to the world by the censorious windows; the 
shelves of the china pantry were transformed 
into a ghostly depository of mysteriously en¬ 
veloped shapes; great wads of paper stuffed the 
chimneys; carpets rolled up and disposed at 
unexpected ambush, made burglarious entry 
after dark suicidal; pillows torn from their ac¬ 
customed resting-places stretched midships on 
the mattress. The rooms were airless, armed 
to the hilt—as a sudden gasping for breath 
taught you!—against a moth invasion. Muffled 
in dust-sheets Miss Hilliard’s “child” had 
settled down to wait her return. 

Some variations of cleanliness rival dirt in 
the achievement of dreariness. 

Benjamin Carnegie was at his gate. He sig¬ 
nalled to the driver of the car to stop. “A 

209 


210 THE SILKEN SCARF 

safe journey, Augusta/’ he said, advancing to 
the door. 

In one hand she grasped her bag and um¬ 
brella, with the other she steadied the hat-box 
balanced on the narrow seat by her. She 
thrust her head forwards. ‘ ‘ Already I feel per¬ 
fectly sick at the thought of the sea,” she said 
tartly. “You know, Benjamin, you should be 
going instead of me, you could just as well look 
after Joan, but it’s just the same old story: you 
men applaud women for doing disagreeable 
things, but not a hand will you put out to do 
them yourselves!’ ’ 

He attempted to expostulate, but she pre¬ 
vented him wdth a dangerous wave of the laden 
hand. “Oh, you are exactly like every other 
man, there ’s not a pin’s difference. I am not 
saying you are a coward—you would face the 
mouth of a cannon, if need be, any day of the 
week—but get a cold in the head, or a tooth that 
goes on aching and the whole world knows it! 
Quick, sharp, for men! Nagging, for women! 
That’s life!” 

The driver gathered up the reins, cracked his 
whip, and applied an interrogatory eye to the 
tiny square window. “Will I be goin’, miss?” 

“Half a minute, Crowley.” Benjamin held 
up his hand. He turned to Miss Hilliard. 
“What about women’s mission to soothe, 
Augusta ? ’ ’ 


THE SILKEN SCARF 


211 


“To soothe men—-yes!” she snapped. “But 
when she is soothing another woman and the 
soothing doesn’t come off, after a time she loses 
her pity and longs to shake her!’ ’ She tapped 
smartly on the window. ‘ 4 Drive on, Crowley! ’ ’ 
The car lurched forward in a rut. She poked 
out her head and called to Benjamin, who stood 
in the middle of the road. 

“I haven’t even begun to try and soothe 
Joan, and already my fingers are itching to 
shake her!” 


CHAPTER XXVIII 


The winter was damp and muggy, even un¬ 
usually so for the south of Ireland. 

For O’Donoghue the months had crawled. 
He had lost keenness for his old pursuits. For¬ 
merly he was used to hunt three or four days a 
week, now the hounds saw him but rarely. 
Gone, too, was his zest for tramping across 
country with a pack of dogs at his heels. And 
he had fallen out of the habit of dropping in to 
tea at the house of one or another neighbour. 
All his life Dickie had invariably been sure of a 
welcome wherever he went. Of all his acquaint¬ 
ances only one had ever failed in praise of him. 
And he, while he went about his work under the 
scorching Mediterranean sun, never ceased to 
curse the day which had thrown Dickie 
O’Donoghue across his path. 

It had never been a habit of 0 ’Donoghue’s to 
take life seriously. Till a few months ago he 
had always found the world a “very decent sort 
of place,” and for his own peace of mind he had 
been lucky enough to be born without the desire 
to probe below the surface of things. If Joan, 

in the first instance, had consented to marry 

212 



THE SILKEN SCARF 


213 


him he would probably have been entirely happy 
—and perhaps then he would have missed his 
chance of heaven. For how can heaven be at¬ 
tained without the longing for it? And why 
should any man be granted that which he does 
not seek? 

Life for him had turned to hell, and yet he 
could not speak the word that would bring liber¬ 
ation. Thp letters he had intended to write 
went unwritten. Twice again he had deter¬ 
mined to seek out Joan and Fenwick, and twice 
at their doors he had taken refuge in flight. 

Once he saw Fenwick. It was in St. James’s 
Square. At the moment that Dickie turned into 
it from Jermyn Street, Fenwick approached it 
from the north side. They had the broad 
pavement to themselves. 

O’Donoghue grasped his stick more firmly, 
the blood surged in his temples, there was a 
singing in his ears, the pavement rose and 
swayed before him. Fenwick was walking 
rapidly, but as he passed Dickie he slightly 
slackened speed, stared deliberately through 
him and passed on. 

The memory of that silent scorn scorched 
0 ’Donoghue. His knees were shaking, his heart 
thumping furiously, for a space he could not 
see clearly. 

The days of vacillation went by. One day he 
read in the Morning Post the announcement that 


214 


THE SILKEN SCARF 


the wedding between Joan, daughter of the late 
Robert Butler, Esq., Butlerstown, Co. Cork, and 
Anthony Fenwick, Esq., Malta, would not take 
place. He sat for a long time holding .the 
paper. At last he stood up and shrugged his 
shoulders. The thing was done now and irrevo¬ 
cable. He simply could not tell Joan what he 
had done. She had not been able to forgive her 
father, she had sent Fenwick away; how could 
he hope that she would forgive him? The one 
thing that remained to do was to try and forget 
the whole affair. And no sooner did he reach 
this point than vacillation began anew. 

For Benjamin Carnegie the winter days 
passed slowly. News came from Augusta Hil¬ 
liard that Joan had grown hard and more than 
ever unapproachable. It saddened him. Where 
the heart is bedded in ice, summer can never 
break through. But invariably the habit of a 
lifetime reasserted itself. When one has faith 
sufficient to believe that the middle wall of parti¬ 
tion between this world and the next is no more 
than a vapour, no miracle appears impossible. 
He banished his momentary depression. Joan 
would yet find her summer. 

So far as Joan was concerned, the passing 
of the weeks made small impression. Miss Hil¬ 
liard was right; she had grown entirely unap¬ 
proachable. Numbness wrapped her. There 
were moments when realisation of all she had 


THE SILKEN SCARF 


215 


lost would tear apart the folds. It was like the 
cutting of flesh with a sharp knife. Generally 
it happened at night. While all round the city 
slept, she lay with wide-open eyes, and while the 
knife did its work the mouth quivered in agony, 
and deep down within her the voice that is hid¬ 
den in every woman, the voice that demands 
love to the day of her death, cried out in re¬ 
bellion against fate. 

Only for Augusta Hilliard did the days rush. 
That London was a modern Babylon had for 
years been one of her firmest tenets. And had 
anyone succeeded in convincing her that the 
true Babylonite is in a minority, she would have 
experienced a sense of shattered cherished illu¬ 
sion. She rarely went out without witnessing 
some shocking example of depravity. To her, 
powder and paint, decollete necks, spoke the 
ubiquity of the Scarlet Woman, but the shocks 
she underwent were compensated for by an ex¬ 
citement not altogether unpleasurable. In the 
light of so much rampant sin, Butlerstown in 
her imagination compared with Babylon as a 
heaven of rectitude. 

“Well, whatever the people at home may be, 
at least they are respectable!’ ’ she exclaimed 
one afternoon, craning her bony neck to watch a 
woman, with face obviously done up, pass below 
in the street. 

Joan moved impatiently from the window. 


216 THE SILKEN SCARF 

The repetition of Butlerstown’s virtues was 
wearying. 

“The Jezebel!” Miss Hilliard snapped her 
lips together and advanced into the room. 

Joan pounced on her. Unhappiness made her 
irritable. 

“Is it one bit worse to do a thing, than to 
want to do it and not, because you are afraid 
of what people will say ? ’ ’ she asked. ‘ i It seems 
to me it’s often nothing but littleness that keeps 
people from doing things.” 

“How do you mean?” Miss Hilliard said 
severely. 

“I mean that lots of women at home—oh, I 
don’t mean Butlerstown specially, I mean any 
small place”—she added, shrugging her shoul¬ 
ders in response to the chilly uplifting of Miss 
Augusta’s eyebrows—“would paint their faces 
if they were not afraid of what people—the 
people they live among, would say about them. 
Personally I would respect them more if they 
were large-minded enough to defy the gossip- 
mongers ! ’ ’ 

There was a pause. She looked up to find 
Miss Hilliard looking oddly at her. The blood 
rushed to her cheeks. It was not for her to con¬ 
demn others for dreading gossip. 

Miss Augusta sailed to the door. “I am 
going to finish my letters,” she announced im¬ 
portantly. She had the knack of giving a ficti- 



THE SILKEN SCARF 


217 


tious value to the most trifling of her doings; in 
the same way that some people can spend a 
shilling with the air of it being a sovereign, or 
invest an invitation to tea with the dignity of a 
banquet. 

In the privacy of her room she added a post¬ 
script to her weekly budget to Benjamin 
Carnegie: 

“Of course Joan is a paragon to you —I find 
she. is not above calling the kettle black ! 1 ’ 








Vs 








PART II 























CHAPTER XXIX 


61 She is worse. Can you come?” 

The wire reached Joan one morning in late 
May of the following year. She packed her box 
and crossed to Ireland by the night mail. 

Some weeks earlier the Midget had had an 
attack of Malta fever. Directly she was con¬ 
valescent Kitty brought her home, thinking her 
native air would completely restore her. But 
day by day the child’s languor increased; her 
old vivid interest in life was gone. Gradually 
Dr. Daly’s visits increased to two daily; there 
came a morning when he said a third would be 
advisable. Then it was that Mrs. Craig wired 
to Joan. 

Dickie met her at the station. After Miss 
Hilliard’s kind but frigid ministrations, Joan 
felt it was good to be spoiled again when he 
tucked her up with infinite care in the dog-cart. 
The grip of his hand was welcome. A feeling 
that nearly approached content stole over her 
at the sound of his pleasant, lazy voice. 

As they drove along the softly wooded lanes 
he pointed with his whip to various small 
changes; to her surprise she found herself ac¬ 
tually interested. 


221 


222 


THE SILKEN SCARF 


When they passed through the village of 
which he was landlord she exclaimed in astonish¬ 
ment. Tumble-down cottages which had for 
long disgraced the neighbourhood were rebuilt; 
everywhere was an air of prosperity. 

“Why, Dickie-” she began. 

He shot her a swift glance, then: “I sent 
Buckley about his business,” he said, with as 
much nonchalance as he could muster, but he 
had crimsoned to the back of his neck; “now I 
do my agenting show myself.” 

“Dickie, I am so glad!” she said impulsively. 

He waited to answer till the village was left 
behind. Then with his eyes carefully fixed be¬ 
tween the horse’s ears he jerked out: “You 
always wanted me to do it, Joan.” 

This time she said nothing, but her cheeks 
flushed suddenly. 

All along the road greetings were called to 
her, faces beamed a welcome. It touched her. 
The peace of the country stole into her soul. 

Now they were passing Augusta Hilliard’s 
house, she glanced at the tall paper-shrouded 
windows. 

“Miss Hilliard will be glad to get home. It 

has been selfish of me to keep her away so 

long.” She spoke as indifferently as she could. 

She had suddenly made a decision. 

«/ 

“Miss Augusta glad to get home-?” In 

his excitement Dickie reined the horse in so 




THE SILKEN SCARF 


223 


abruptly that he fell back on his haunches. 
‘ 4 Steady there, steady there, old boy!” he said. 
Then he turned and faced Joan. “If she comes 
back, what about you? You can’t live by your¬ 
self- Joan, are you coming home?” 

She looked away from him across the fields. 
Beyond them at the far side of the narrow river 
was the slope of Benjamin Carnegie’s garden; a 
little distance beyond, the chimneys of her own 
house show 7 ed between the trees. Then she 
spoke: 

“Yes, Dickie, I am coming home. I want”— 
she hesitated—“I want to make a fresh start— 
I want to forget.” 

He guided the horse through the entrance 
gate of The Firs. His pulses were tingling. 
Would it be also possible for him to make a 
fresh start? Could he too learn to forget? 

They drove in silence up the avenue. The 
birds were busy in the belt of fir-trees that 
stretched away behind the house. The roses 
were in full bloom: the pergola flamed red and 
yellow; pink and white rioted over the wooden 
fence that separated the broad gravelled path 
from the sloping lawn, over the arch that 
spanned the flight of green carpeted steps. 
Roses nodded impertinently from the glass 
porch, others climbed to peer inquisitively on 
the roof. As in every other June they had 
come to hold high revel at The Firs. 



224 


THE SILKEN SCARF 


But everything else spoke a desolating unfa¬ 
miliarity. Pat, the Irish terrier, stood on the 
steps, letting off a succession of short barks, 
but there was no robust voice now to chide his 
assumed ferocity. The wdiite wooden seat out¬ 
side the porch, instead of being strewn with 
Kitty’s work-basket and books, was empty. 
Joan glanced up, behind the gay chintz curtains 
in Kitty’s bedroom she caught a glimpse of a 
nurse’s uniform. In place of Kitty flying 
tempestuously to the door to greet her, there 
was a maid with subdued voice. Though the 
day was hot, while she waited in the drawing¬ 
room, Joan shivered. 

Presently Kitty came in. Hitherto Joan 
had never seen her in trouble; she had always 
been the comforter. Now the face was white, 
the eyes looked hunted. Tears rushed to Joan’s 
eyes as she held out her hands to her. 

‘ 4 Kitty dear, is there no better news 1 ’ ’ 

The mother spread her hands despairingly, 

• ••••• 

The days went by, and always the fear grew 
in Kitty’s eyes. Malta fever is an insidious 
thing, it saps life slowly but remorselessly. 
There came a morning when Joan seeking Kitty 
after Dr. Daly’s visit found her pacing the 
drawing-room like some wild thing seeking 
shelter. She flew to Joan, caught her arms 
and held them in a vise. 


THE SILKEN SCARF 


225 


“Joan, it’s not true!—it can’t be true!—be 
said there is very little hope. I won’t believe 
it—I can't, Joan, say yon don’t believe it; say 
it is not true—say it, Joan, say it! Oh, God, 
You shan ’t take her! Yon shan’t! ” 

Pitifully Joan’s eyes looked into hers; piti¬ 
fully Joan held her. But she was dumb. What 
comfort could she give? She tried to say God 
knows best, but she could not get out the words. 
How could it be best for Kitty if her child were 
to die? 

Dr. Daly called again at midday* When he 
came from the sick-room Kitty faced him. Her 
features were set. 

‘ ‘ Tell me the worst at once, ’ ’ she commanded. 

“Everything depends on her getting some 

good sleep. If she can’t-” There was no 

need to complete his sentence—his face told the 
rest. 

Kitty stood transfixed. The world reeled 
round her. Every impatient word she had 
spoken to the Midget rose in condemnation. 
About her feet lay the rosy hopes she had built 
for the child’s future. In one agonised mo¬ 
ment she realised what life would be without 
her. Already she could feel the desolating 
emptiness of the house, the chill quiet. She 
covered her face to shut out a vision that con¬ 
fronted her—a vision in which the Midget lay 
still in a little patch of God’s Acre, where the 




226 


THE SILKEN SCARF 


sleepers are mocked by the trees and flowers, 
the birds’ everlasting paean of the joy of life. 
And how few of those sleepers are glad to find 
their rest. Kitty’s face contorted. She her¬ 
self who prized life so dearly could conceive 
only of heaven as a place for the old and tired. 
Her anguish deepened; she could see her child’s 
little hands beating fruitlessly against their 
prison door, imploring to come back, to be al¬ 
lowed to taste life before she found her heaven, 

Dr. Daly watched her silently. He was a 
neat, horsy little man, with the air of having 
just jumped from the saddle. His face was 
tanned red from constant exposure to the 
weather. Presently he touched Kitty gently. 

“We are in God’s hands, Mrs. Craig.” The 
reverence of his manner seemed somehow in¬ 
congruous with his hard-riding, fox-hunting 
appearance. 

“Oh!” Kitty dropped her hands from her 
tortured face. “Don’t make me blaspheme. In 
God’s hands—and my child is dying?” 

When he went away she resumed her vigil 
outside the Midget’s door. From time to time 
sounds in the room broke the stillness. The 
nurse’s steps, light and even, now swift and 
sudden. Once there was a weak voice. At 
that Kitty dropped her stricken face and 
groaned. 

About three o’clock she heard a horse being 


THE SILKEN SCARF 


227 


led cautiously up the avenue. Then, though un¬ 
conscious of doing so, she listened to the groom 
coming round from the stables. He trod with 
elaborate care; she could almost hear the sharp 
catch of his breath as he leant from foot to foot. 
There was a faint murmur in the hall, a stir in 
the drawing-room. She knew it was Dickie, 
About a week ago the Midget had asked for him. 
Every day since he had come and waited, hour 
after hour, lest she should ask again. 

Presently Joan stole up with a tray of milk 
and biscuits. Kitty had eaten nothing since 
breakfast, but she waved away the tray. “It 
would choke me,” she muttered. 

Joan went back to the drawing-room. And 
the long day crawled by. She had put herself 
aside; all her thoughts were upstairs in the fa¬ 
miliar room, now unfamiliar with the trappings 
of illness, with Kitty crouched on a mat. She 
forgot to wipe away the tears that ran down her 
cheeks. Once Dickie asked if he was in the way, 
would she like him to go. 

6 t I would rather you stayed, , ’ she said. There 
was something about his burly frame that made 
death less of a reality. She glanced up at him 
and met the wistful expression in his eyes—the 
mongrel look, as Kitty called it. It touched 
her. “Dickie, you are a help,” she added 
gently. 

He walked abruptly to the window. His lips 


228 THE SILKEN SCARF 

were twitching. Did she but know what he had 
done! 

The door opened. Kitty stood framed in it. 

1 ‘ Joan—she is asking for you—for you, too, 
Dickie.’’ Her voice was sharp with fear. 

Swiftly Joan’s eyes met 0 ’Donoghue’s. Was 
this the Midget’s good-bye? 

Kitty intercepted the glance. In the anguish 
of her spirit she wrung her hands. Was her 
child going from her? Blackness lay upon her 
soul. Death’s sombre tread was in her tortured 
ears. 

1 ‘ Just one spoonful more—to please me, 
Midget! ’ ’ 

The nurse stood by watching. All her efforts 
to induce the child to take nourishment had 

proved fruitless. If she refused now-? 

Tensely she fixed her eyes on the spoon Dickie 
held. The Midget lay inert. The nurse ghook 
her head. 

Slowly the parched lips opened, the wide eyes 
sought Dickie’s languidly- 

‘ 6 That’s right; good girl, Midget! ’ ’ 

Triumphantly Dickie handed the cup to the 
nurse. Gently as a woman his hand stroked the 
child’s feverish one. The little hot fingers 
closed on his—a faint smile hovered round the 
lips—the eyes shut—opened—remained open. 

He waited rigid. Would sleep come? 





THE SILKEN SCARF 229 

The eyes closed- There was the sound of 

even breathing. The fingers still held his. 

Across the bed the nurse nodded hopefully. 
A prolonged sleep at this juncture marked the 
turning-point. 

The May day melted into the opaqueness of 
the long May twilight, the twilight into night’s 
“pure dark ether.” Still the child slept. Still 
cramped and stiff Dickie kept vigil. 

• • • • • • 

Dawn broke. 

“Dickie, I love you!” 

Outside the door where throughout the night 
she had crouched Kitty suddenly straightened 
herself and listened. Then she clutched Joan. 
Had she actually heard a laugh—a veritable 
ghost of a laugh? 

The nurse appeared at the door. She was 
smiling. 

“The crisis is past,” she whispered; “she 
will do now . 9 ’ 

For one second Kitty gazed at her with wide 
eyes, the next she was laughing and crying 
together. 

The door again opened and shut swiftly. 

“Kitty, be quiet, you will frighten the Mid¬ 
get,” said Dickie under his breath. 

But Mrs. Craig was past control. Without 
further ado he stooped, picked her up in his 
arms, and bore her off to her room. 



230 


THE SILKEN SCARF 


He it was who thought for everyone. He 
routed the maids out of bed and ordered strong 
coffee for Kitty. He sent Joan to lie down. He 
dispatched a messenger to Dr. Daly. Not till 
the sun was high in the heavens did he think of 
himself, then he went to the drawing-room and 
flung himself on the sofa. 

At midday he woke to find Joan looking down 
at him. She held out both hands. Her eyes 
were shining. 

“ Nurse says that that sleep saved her—the 
sleep was entirely due to you, Dickie!” 

He scrambled to his feet. Never before had 
Joan’s face worn that tender look for him. 

“Dickie, you are a dear!” She was holding 
him by both hands. The mouth curved upwards 
with its adorable crooked twist. 

He stared .at her. His heart was beating 
fast. Could it he that the dream of his life 
might actually find reality? 

Then he dropped her hands and turned away 
abruptly. 

A spectre w 7 hich for a moment had been laid 
rose and confronted him. 


CHAPTEB XXX 


Tea was over. 

With delightful unconsciousness of the 
cracked cups, the milk-jug that did not match, 
the shabbiness of the japanned tray, Benjamin 
had presided at the table. Now he led the way 
into the garden. 

The party split up. Joan and O’Donoghue 
wandered down by the river. The Midget be¬ 
took herself to the poultry-yard. Kitty fol¬ 
lowed her; in these days she scarcely let the 
child out of her sight. Mr. Carnegie and Miss 
Hilliard were left together. 

“There’s not much sign of the blossom yet, 
but the/ foliage’s good, eh, Augusta!” He 
pointed eagerly to his latest “long-horned 
cow.” His eyes were bright. The most tactless 
of beings would have hesitated to disillusion 
him. 

Not so Miss Augusta. She prodded the plant 
with her sunshade. “Bemarkably good—al¬ 
most tropical! ” She sniffed. 

He looked anxiously at her. “Tropical!” 

“Tropical plants grow apace—so do weeds!” 

said she witheringly. “Dig up the thing, it’s 

231 


232 


THE SILKEN SCARF 


only taking up valuable room. No, not now!” 
she added impatiently, as crestfallen he moved 
away to fetch his spade. “There’s something 
I want to know.” She jerked her head to¬ 
wards the river path. “Have you noticed 
anything?” 

“What is there to notice?” he asked 
innocently. 

She stamped. “Benjamin, sometimes I won¬ 
der if you are a knave or a fool.” 

He smiled gently. “Sometimes, Augusta, I 
wonder if you don’t suspect me of being a little 
of both!” 

She shrugged her shoulders. “Have you not 
noticed—even you, blind you!—how O’Donog- 
hue has shadowed Joan lately!” 

“He has always shadowed her,” he replied 
imperturbably. 

She clicked her teeth. ‘ 4 That was different— 
she used to resent it. Does she resent it now? 
Watch!” She raised her lorgnette and criti¬ 
cally surveyed Joan and Dickie. Their backs 
were turned to her. They leant side by side 
against the railings. 

Benjamin glanced, then glanced away. 

“It seems to me that Joan is hanging on his 
words,” she commented. “Benjamin, you are 
not looking!” she added irritably. 

“I don’t care for spying,” he said shortly. 

“Spying! Who is spying?” she asked 


THE SILKEN SCARF 233 

angrily, but the red crept up under her sallow 
skin. 

“ Forgive me, Augusta, but to watch people 
when they think they are unobserved is spying. ’ ’ 

She dropped her glasses and glared at him. 
“In that case you must keep your eyes shut to 
half that goes on in the world. Why did the 
Almighty give people eyes?” 

He was stung to retort. “Why did the Al¬ 
mighty give people a sense of honour?” 

Miss Hilliard scented argument; she prepared 
to enjoy herself. “I know perfectly what’s in 
your mind, Benjamin—that men have a higher 
sense of honour than women!” 

He raised his hands in deprecation. 

“Oh, yes, you are thinking it—every man 
does!” She tapped the ground with her para¬ 
sol. “But you have no sense of proportion. 
Take this instance: Do you remember last 
Tuesday taking me to task for telling Mrs. 
Drummond I had spent a very pleasant 
evening ?’ ’ 

He turned reproachfully on her. 

“Had you not said to me only ten minutes 
earlier that you were bored to death and that 
you longed to be in bed?” 

She laughed. “Merely a polite fib; what 
woman would not tell it? But”—suddenly she 
sat erect and shook a menacing finger at him— 
“let me tell you, Benjamin, what no woman 


234 


THE SILKEN SCARF 


would do—she would not perjure her soul for 
the sake of her party like those unscrupulous 
M.P.’s do”—Miss Hilliard invariably referred 
to the Westminster legislators as “M.P.’s,” and 
in a manner that implied their having been born 
a distinct species—and that not wholly desir¬ 
able!—“ neither would she abuse a man like a 
pickpocket one minute and half an hour later sit 
cheek by jowl with him at dinner! Pshaw!” 

“Is it not conceivable that a man may some¬ 
times have to make concessions for the benefit 
of his party?” he asked. 

“Party!” she scoffed. “How men love 
mobs! You would find consolation even in hell 
if you went there in a crowd!” 

“Augusta, I wish you would not joke about 
such things.” He looked reproachfully at her. 

Impatiently she shook herself. “Benjamin, 
I used to think that only the young could be 
prigs ! 1 ’ 

“Yes?” His homely features wore an 
anxious expression. She looked at him, opened 
her mouth to speak, thought better of it. Grad¬ 
ually her face softened, she was thinking of a 
long-ago dream. 

Every dream worthy the name is heaven-sent. 
Even when day dispels it, by reason of it we 
are left a little the better. At least one corner 
in our hearts is for ever proof against hardness. 

“Benjamin”—for a moment five bony fingers 


THE SILKEN SCARF 


235 


rested lightly on his old tweed sleeve—“you 
would be the prince of prigs if yon happened to 
be anybody but yourself—as it is ” 

“Yes, Augusta, as it is- V 9 

“As it is, no one would wish you to be differ¬ 
ent from what you are. ’ 9 

Personalities lend a vague discomfort to the 
old. Benjamin was touched, but he sat in 
awkward silence. 

Miss Hilliard broke it defiantly; she was 
aware that her face was slightly flushed. 

“Spying or no spying, I should love to know 
what they are talking about! ’ 9 

Had she known, she would have been 
surprised. 

At that moment Joan and O’Donoghue as 
they paced the river walk were discussing 
schemes for the betterment of his tenants. 
Dickie had brought up the subject and Joan 
eagerly flung herself into it. It helped to take 
her out of herself. They had just arrived at 
the question of improved water supply. Joan’s 
dark eyes fixed his, while she considered ways 
and means. 

“If you and I made a representation together 
to the County Council they might possibly give 
a grant. Why should we not work in our 
properties together V 9 

Together! Dickie’s breath suddenly came 
fast. 





236 


THE SILKEN SCARF 


‘‘ Joan! why not—why not make ’em one prop¬ 
erty?’ ’ He drew his handkerchief across his 
forehead. “Wait a minute, Joan—it could be 
a model estate—the kind of thing you are so 
keen on—you could do exactly as you like— 
every mortal thing”—he put out his hand and 
caught her fingers—“Joan—couldn’t you even 
think of it, dear?” 

She shook her head, but there were tears in 
her eyes. She held her other hand impulsively 
to him. 

“Dickie, with all my heart I wish I could— 
you are the very best soul in the world—but I 
can’t! ” 

“The best soul in the world!” 

He dropped her hands and turned abruptly. 



CHAPTER XXXI 


Unwittingly, Benjamin Carnegie brought 
about the engagement. 

One afternoon, late in December, Joan paid 
him a visit. She was in a restless mood. From 
his chair by the fire he watched her moving 
about the room, rearranging the bowl of Christ¬ 
mas roses, fingering the pile of cards that lay 
on the table. Presently she came and stood un¬ 
certainly by him. 

“What is it?” he asked quietly. 

She did not answer. She dropped on her 
knees beside him and raised her hand to shelter 
her eyes from the blaze. 

He bent forward and patted it. “Are you 
never again going to be a little bit happy, 
dear?” he asked. 

Her face hardened. “Mr. Carnegie, what is 
there for me to be happy about?” she said 
resentfully. 

‘ ‘ 6 The world is full of so many things, that I 
am sure we should all be as happy as kings , 9 9 ’ 
he quoted softly. There was raillery in his 
voice, but the eyes were tender. 

“Do the other things matter when you have 

lost the one thing that counts?” She turned 

237 


238 THE SILKEN SCARF 

her head and stared into the heart of the red 
coals. 

He waited a moment. Then: ‘ 4 Joan, are 
you the only person in the world?” 

Her face crimsoned suddenly. “I suppose I 
am abominably selfish—unhappy people gen¬ 
erally are. But what cure is there for unhappi¬ 
ness?” She edged nearer and looked at him 
with a forlorn pretence of a smile—the smile of 
twisted lips and sorrowful eyes. 

There is a cure, a very old-fashioned one.” 
Suddenly he laughed softly. “ Augusta Hilliard 
would say only a prig would prescribe it! Try 
and help somebody else. Joan, there is no 
other cure . 9 9 

6 6 But I do, ’ 9 she protested. There was a note 
of impatience in her voice. 

He shook his head. “ Money, coal-tickets and 
the rest. What virtue lies there? You sacri¬ 
fice nothing to give them.” 

“What else can I give?” she asked hopelessly. 

“Give yourself,” he said quickly. “Joan,” 
he laid his hand on her shoulder, “you are shut¬ 
ting yourself up in yourself, and a life that does 
that is a life wasted. Don’t you know anyone 
in need of sympathy and understanding? If 
you do, give them. There are people and to 
spare to give the soup and the coal-tickets. It 
is the other sort of giver the world is in need 
of.” 


THE SILKEN SCARF 


239 


She caught her breath suddenly. 

He said no more, and presently they talked 
of other things. But just before she left she 
turned abruptly to him. 

‘ 6 Mr. Carnegie, are you sure, quite sure ? ’ ’ 

He did not ask what she meant, he understood. 
“ Quite sure, Joan. One must give oneself 
complete^—there is no other cure for unhappi¬ 
ness/ ’ He leant on his stick and watched her 
gravely. 

She was silent for a moment, then she flashed 
out: “I wonder why I was ever born? What 
is the good of life at all?” 

“To teach each one of us that morning never 
fails to break, no matter how black the night has 
been,” he answered gently. 


CHAPTER XXXII 


“Mummy, there’s Miss Hilliard waving to us!” 

It was in March. Mrs. Craig and the Midget 
had been staying in Killarney. They were now 
driving home from the station. 

6 ‘ Stop, Michael! ’’ said Kitty to the man. Her 
voice was resigned, she was anxious to get home. 
But she dismounted, wondering as she did so 
why Augusta Hilliard invariably intercepted 
her friends at the wrong moment. 

“Well, what’s the best news with every¬ 
body?” she called out cheerily as she walked up 
the little path with its prim border. Then 
noting an air of mystery about her hostess: 
“Miss Hilliard, there’s some scandal! I know 
it by your face! Tell me directly!” 

“What! You have not heard of the engage¬ 
ment ? ’ ’ Miss Hilliard swelled with importance. 
“Why”—she broke off sharply at the sight of 
the Midget jumping across the flower border— 
‘ ‘ Midget, you are trampling the daffodils! ’ ’ 

“Oh, Miss Hilliard, I’m sorry!” She 
dropped swiftly to her knees and pressed her 
lips against a green sheath. There was heard 
a muttering. 


240 



THE SILKEN SCAKF 241 

“Midget, what’s that rubbish?” Miss Au¬ 
gusta asked inquisitively. 

“ ’Tisn’t rubbish!” The Midget stood up¬ 
right with her sturdy legs thrust well apart and 
bestowed a pugilistic glance on Miss Hilliard. 
“I was only telling the daffy I wouldn’t have 
hurt it for the world.” 

“Don’t be so foolish, Midget! How can the 
daffodils hear you f Flowers haven’t got ears. ’ ’ 
She laughed, the unsympathetic, superior laugh 
of the woman who never credits a child with 
individuality. To such a type of woman, chil¬ 
dren are—children; that is, beings w T ho are 
merely good or naughty, hungry or full, sleepy 
or wakeful by turn. 

The Midget flamed scarlet, but she stuck to 
her point. “Yes, they have ears!—Mr. Car¬ 
negie says they have. He says flowers are 
thoughts that God plants in gardens to make 
people remember Him! ’ ’ 

Keally Benjamin was incredible! Miss Hil¬ 
liard tossed her head. Kitty dashed hurriedly 
into the breach. 

“You have not yet told me who are engaged. ” 

“Joan and 0’Donoghue.” Miss Hilliard 
managed to conceal her gratification at Kitty’s 
astonishment. 

“Joan and—Dickie! It can’t be true! I 
simply don’t believe it! ” 

“Believe it or not as you like,” said Miss 



242 THE SILKEN SCARF 

Augusta tartly, “the fact remains, they are en¬ 
gaged. ’’ 

“But how—I can’t understand-” Mrs. 

Craig had a habit when she was bewildered of 
sitting down on the nearest available spot. At 
the moment the door-step was the handiest seat; 
she plumped on to it. With her round chin 
supported in the cup of her hand she gazed up 
at her hostess. The light blue veil she wore 
streamed airily from her motor bonnet. Her 
coquettish air produced its never failing irritat¬ 
ing effect upon Miss Hilliard. 

“Probably Joan is growing sensible and for¬ 
getting that rubbishy Malta affair. ’ ’ She gave 
Kitty a sharp look, clearly implying who in her 
opinion was responsible for “the rubbishy 
Malta affair.” “And an exceedingly good 
thing too! I always did think there must be 
something wrong about a man who made his 
living out of oranges. What are oranges?” 
She sniffed magnificently. 

“/ think they are awfully nice,” chimed in 
the Midget. “We had lovely ones in Malta. 
Do you remember, mummy, when we used to go 
to Anthony’s garden and pick them?” 

“Mr. Fenwick, Midget,” said Miss Augusta 
in her most “governessy” manner. 

“No, Anthony,” the Midget insisted. She 
invariably treated her mother’s intimates as 
contemporaries of her own; it was quite useless 



THE SILKEN SCARF 


243 


to argue the point with her. “ And the oranges 
were lovely—great, fat, juicy fellows!” she 
continued. 

“Be quiet, darling, run away for a moment, 
I want to speak to Miss Hilliard,” said Kitty. 
Then as unabashed the Midget danced down the 
path: “Anthony will feel it dreadfully.” 

But in vain she looked for sympathy to Miss 
Augusta. She shrugged her shoulders indiffer¬ 
ently. Like Dickie, she was prejudiced against 
foreigners: in her mind Fenwick by reason of 
his oranges fell under that category. It was 
absurd to pretend that foreigners were the same 
as oneself; their hearts—and she much doubted 
that they had any strong feelings—were soon 
mended. 

“He’ll get over it,” she said curtly. 

Mrs. Craig’s eyes flashed ominously. Sud¬ 
denly she visioned her last meeting with Fen¬ 
wick. He had come on board the P. & 0. boat to 
wish her and the Midget good-bye. An unex¬ 
pected disconcerting silence fell between them; 
for once Kitty’s aplomb forsook her, she found 
nothing to say. All round, people were sending 
messages to friends at home. On the impulse 
she turned to him. 

“Have you any messages?” 

No sooner had the words escaped than she 
could have bitten out her tongue. 

“There is only one person to whom I would 


2U THE SILKEN SCARF 

care to send a message—and she would not re¬ 
ceive it. ’ ’ 

His face was a mask, but his voice was a little 
uneven. 

And now Miss Hilliard said he “ would get 
over it,” as lightly as though she spoke of a 
schoolboy’s love affair. 

“He will not get over it.” Kitty stood up 
and took her leave. 

Miss Hilliard slightly shifted her position. 
“Well, his loss is Dickie’s gain,” she said 
acidly. 

Nobody was more acutely aware of the fact 
than Mrs. Craig, and, seeing that she loved 
O’Donoghue, it angered her to hear Miss 
Augusta giving it expression. 

She turned angrily and looked Miss Hilliard 
squarely in the face. “What a pity bigamy is 
illegal! I wish to heaven Joan could marry 
both Dickie and Anthony. Come, Midget.” 

As she marched down the path the high nar¬ 
row windows watched her retreating back with 
censorious eyes. Bigamy! Almost one could 
hear them shake in their outraged virtue. 

For this was an old maid’s house, and the 
secret regret of many a woman that she cannot 
marry two men is beyond an old maid’s compre¬ 
hension—that is, of the predestined old maid. 
The old maid is a double genus—the woman who 
was so born, and the woman who remains single 



THE SILKEN SCARF 


245 


because, owing to a miscalculation of Nature, 
she arrived in the world a generation either too 
soon or too late. This is the old maid who 
mothers other people’s children. 


CHAPTER XXXIII 


That same afternoon Kitty drove herself over 
in the governess-cart to Bntlerstown. 

“Jump out, Midget, and ring.” She pulled 
the pony up at the door. 

Nobody was visible—a great stillness hung 
over the place. It impressed itself even on the 
Midget. She tiptoed back down the wide shal¬ 
low flight of steps. “Isn’t it empty, mummy!” 
she whispered. 

Kitty smiled at her. “It wants noisy children 
like you, darling, running about.’ ’ 

“Why couldn’t Joan get some!” the Midget 
demanded. 

“Perhaps she may, some day,” replied her 
mother unguardedly. 

The old butler appeared. “Miss Joan’s in 
the garden, ma’am. Mr. 0’Donoghue’s with 
her.” 

Joan was standing by herself at the farthest 
end of the long central walk. At the opening 
of the gate she turned sharply—was it Dickie 
returning!—then when she recognised her 
visitors she advanced quickly to greet them. 

“Kitty, how sweet of you to come at once.” 

She kissed first Mrs. Craig, then the Midget. 

246 



THE SILKEN SCARF 247 

“You have just missed Dickie; he left a minute 
ago by the other gate.” 

Secretly Kitty heaved a sigh of relief; she 
was not in the mood for congratulations. 

But her daughter was troubled with no 
arriere pensee. She only realised that the two 
people dearest to her, after her father and 
mother, were going to be always together. 
What could be more desirable ? She hurled her¬ 
self delightedly on Joan. 

“Dearest, sweetest Joan, I am so glad you are 
going to marry Dickie. Will you live in a house 
with him, just like daddy and mummy? May I 
come and stay with you? Will you have break¬ 
fast and dinner together and-” 

Mrs. Craig had reason to fear the Midget’s 
tongue. She broke in with determination: 

‘‘ Joan dear, I think Dickie is the luckiest man in 
the world.’’ She trusted devoutly that Joan 
would not detect the one-sidedness of her con¬ 
gratulations. 

But Joan was not easily blinded. She looked 
straight at her: “And what of me? Am I not 
also to be congratulated?” 

Kitty reddened. Dissimulation was her 
weakest point; in vain she sought a noncom¬ 
mittal reply. 

Joan’s eyes were on her; she laughed a little 
hardly. “Don’t try to make pretty speeches, 
Kitty dear, I know you don’t approve. ’ ’ 



248 


THE SILKEN SCARE 


The Midget had darted away, so Kitty could 
speak frankly. 

“Joan, forgive me, b-but how c-can there be 
any happiness for y-you in this engagement ?’ ’ 
Her pretty face flushed. She was treading on 
delicate ground, but she felt bound to traverse 
it. “You will forgive me, won’t you? but—b- 
but your h-happiness lies with A-Anthony. 
Joan dear, it is not too 1-late,” she added des¬ 
perately, “c-can’t you forgive him?” She went 
a little white. There w T as horror—horror, that 
frightened her—in Joan’s eyes. “Oh, my 
dear, I didn’t mean to hurt you. ’ ’ 

“Forgive? Kitty, you don’t know what you 

are talking about-” She gripped her hands 

together. Mrs. Craig mercifully turned away 
her eyes. There was a pause. Then: “That 
is a closed subject between you and me.” 

In the silence that followed, Kitty was con¬ 
scious of its finality. 

Now Joan was speaking in short, stilted sen¬ 
tences. “I want you to understand—Mr. Car¬ 
negie says the only cure for unhappiness is to 
help somebody else. Dickie wants—this very 
badly”—her voice was frozen—“so at last I 
said Yes.” She looked away, then faced 
Kitty. “I confess the cure has not begun to 
work yet.” The words ended on a note of 
bitterness. 



THE SILKEN SCARF 


249 


Mrs. Craig burst out impetuously: “Joan, 
you are making a dreadful mistake!” 

Joan shrugged her shoulders. “What does 
it matter! I have lost the faculty of caring 
much about anything. If this makes Dickie 
happy—why not?” 

Fatty looked helplessly at her. How had she 
contrived to reach such a degree of apathy? 

‘ ‘ Dickie knows exactly how things stand. He 
must not expect much from me—and he is will¬ 
ing to take the risk.” She gave a hard little 
laugh. “He says that in time he will make me 
care for him. Men are sublimely conceited, 
aren’t they?” 

“Don’t!” said Mrs. Craig sharply. “It is 
not like you to be bitter.” 

“Have I no cause to be?” 

Had she quite turned to stone? Kitty was 
ready to w T eep. 

The Midget suddenly reappeared. She 
danced up to Joan and fixed her with large in¬ 
quiring eyes. “Joan,” she asked, “will you 
have children?” 

Mrs. Craig gasped. 6i Midget, how often have 
I told you not to ask so many questions? Run 
away, Joan and I are talking.” 

“But, mummy, I do want to know, I love 
babies! If you find a baby, Joan, you will let 
me come and hold it, won’t you?” She rubbed 
her cheek ingratiatingly against J oan’s hand. 



250 


THE SILKEN SCARF 


4 4 Midget, go away this minute. Pick me a 
bunch of flowers,’ 9 her mother commanded. 

44 There aren’t any flowers,” the Midget 
argued mendaciously; 44 they are all weeds.” 

44 Well, pick me weeds—pick me anything! 
only go away at once . 9 9 Then, as her daughter 
evinced no disposition to move: 14 Midget, do 
you hear me? I want to talk to Joan.” 

Two plump shoulders were humped. 44 ’Tis 
horrid of you to send me away, mummy. 
Grown-up people are horrid, they are always 
wanting to talk and telling children to run aw T av. 
I want to talk too . 9 9 She held her ground sturd¬ 
ily in the middle of the path. 

For once Kitty was determined on victory. 
She pointed down the path. 4 4 This minute, 
Midget—this very minute.” The Midget dared 
not disobey. Muttering fierce denunciations 
concerning “grown-up people,” she retreated 
slowly. 

Kitty laid her hand on Joan’s. 44 Joan dear, 
I am vexed beyond w^ords.” 

The coldness of Joan’s face was pierced, her 
breast was heaving. 4 4 Kitty, I believe I have 
been asleep—the Midget has waked me. Chil¬ 
dren-” She drew her hand across her eyes. 

4 4 Only a year ago I had such dreams of the 
future.” 

4 4 You must not marry Dickie feeling as you 



THE SILKEN SCARF 


251 


do,” said Kitty stoutly; “it is not fair to him. 
Joan, tell him so.” 

4 ‘ I have given him my word, I cannot go back 
on it, ’’ she answered dully. 

Mrs. Craig was in despair. “A great deal of 
nonsense is talked about keeping promises,’ ’ she 
argued. “Surely it is far wiser to break your 
word, if by keeping it you inflict an injury on 
somebody!” 

i i He wants me, ’ ’ Joan said quietly. 

“He wants you now, but the time will come 
when he will tire of wanting. My dear, men are 
only mortal. Unsatisfied need often changes to 
indifference. From indifference to regret there 
is but a step. Joan,” she begged, “tell him now 
before it is too late. It will hurt him—dread¬ 
fully, but he will always carry his dream in his 
heart. Would you not rather, infinitely rather, 
keep a dream, than risk turning your hope to 
disillusion!” 

Joan shook her head. “It is no use, Kitty, 
I know him so well; he would rather have a 
little than nothing. Besides, I have given my 
word.” 

There was such finality in her voice that Mrs. 
Craig sought to persuade no more. 

They walked to the gate. After they had said 
good-bye the Midget darted back to Joan to 
whisper. Kitty caught a glimpse of a face 
swiftly dyed scarlet. 


252 


THE SILKEN SCARE 


4 ‘Midget, what was that you said to Joan?” 
she asked suspiciously. 

The Midget gave a defiant toss of her head. 
“I asked her to promise that the very minute 
she found a baby, to let me know, and Pd come 
over at once !’ 7 



CHAPTER XXXIV 


They were to be married in three months. 

FelPs Court was filled with workmen; the 
whole house was being redecorated according to 
Joan’s taste. 

In the eyes of the neighbourhood the marriage 
was a thoroughly “suitable” one—youth, 
wealth, years of intimacy, adjoining properties, 
helped to swell the quantum of desirabilities. 
Even now Joan’s pronounced views on seignio¬ 
rial duty exerted their influence on O’Donog- 
hue; already the long-needed scheme for an im¬ 
proved water supply was in train; the years- 
deferred alterations in the village school-house 
were in actual progress. As to Dickie himself, 
his friends had long agreed that he needed 
4 4 steadying. ” That process was also in being. 
There were a few dissentient spirits. At his 
club in the adjoining little town criticism was 
not lacking. 

44 0 ’Donoghue hasn’t a word to throw to a dog 
these days. What on earth’s wrong with him ? ’ ’ 
queried, one afternoon, a tall cadaverous man 
with a humorous mouth, and the reputation of 

keeping a table in a roar. 

253 



254 THE SILKEN SCARF 

Shoulders were shrugged, suggestions mur¬ 
mured. 

Suddenly a short man jerked his fat body 
upright in his arm-chair and glanced over the 
top of his paper. “What’s that rot one 
reads sometimes about a sword—belongin’ to 
Damocles, or somebody—dam’ rot anyhow!— 
being held over people’s heads! Faith”—he 
slipped back to the depths of his chair—“it 
looks to me as though Dickie was spendin’ his 
life dodgin’ it!” 

For once comfortable, lazy Michael Ronan 
had hit the mark. A sword hung over 
O’Donoghue. Every day it drooped a little 
lower. 

Luncheon was on the table, but the food re¬ 
mained untouched. He dismissed the servants. 
Against his forehead the cold steel pressed, 
threatening to crush his very life. The hand 
with which he mopped his face was clammy, 
his mouth twitched. He pushed back his chair 
and began to pace the room. 

Up and down he went, backwards and for¬ 
wards. Suddenly he halted by the window. 
He had taken a resolution. He would tell 
Joan—it was the only decent thing to do—he 
would tell her this very afternoon. He drew 
a deep breath and squared his shoulders. 
Yes! not another day should pass. He glanced 
at the clock; it was two now; at three she 


THE SILKEN SCARF 


255 


would be here to look at the wall-papers; he 
would tell her then. He straightened his tie, 
jerked down his waistcoat, then plunged his 
hands in his pockets. His fingers were not 
quite steady. 

• ••••• 

Again he paced the room. His resolution 
had weakened; his forehead was wet. He 
could not give her up—it was too big a 
sacrifice to expect of any man. She loved 
Fenwick—his face twisted. God! how she 
loved him! A paroxysm of jealousy shook 
him. He pulled himself together and reasoned 
the thing out. If she had had the strength to 
put Fenwick, whom she loved, out of her life, 
what chance had he—he for whom she enter¬ 
tained nothing more than friendship! He pic¬ 
tured her pitiless scorn when he made his 
confession. 

• ••••• 

No, he could not tell her. 

He was trembling from head to foot. Going 
to the table he poured out some whisky and 
tossed it off. It gave him fresh courage. He 
stood, considering. After all, weren’t the odds 
a hundred to one that she would never find out 
what he had done! The past was past; why 
turn up old mud-heaps. He drank some more 
whisky. 

A workman on the stairs was whistling softly. 


256 


THE SILKEN SCARF 


Dickie listened, then he went out into the hall. 
After the had moment he had just experienced 
there was something reassuring about contact 
with a human being. The smell of paint, the 
noise of hammering, were concrete things. 
They helped to steady his nerves. His hands 
were not trembling now. 

He strolled about examining the work—here 
and there he made a suggestion. He was inter¬ 
ested, yes, genuinely interested. That was an 
immense relief. 

Now the painter was singing tentatively. 
Again Dickie listened. It occurred to him that 
he had not touched the piano for weeks. As a 
matter of fact he had not had the heart. On 
the impulse he turned into the music-room. 
A book of Grieg’s lay open. He began to 
play, at first carelessly, slurring the notes; 
then as the music gripped him, each rang out 
true. They came tripping, now gay, now pas¬ 
sionate, ever and anon deepened by a sombre 
chord. 

Something in the music hurt him; he broke 
off abruptly in the middle of a bar. 

The workman on the stairs resumed his paint¬ 
ing ; he had been marking time with his brush. 

Again the music began—this time it was a 
waltz. Grinning, the painter made mimic show 
of movement over the balustrade to his mates 
in the hall. 


THE SILKEN SCARF 257 

The music crashed again unexpectedly to 
silence. 

The last time Dickie had played that waltz 
was at Butlerstown on the night of the hall. 
He conjured up the scene. There was the buzz 
of applause at the final notes; the chatter of 
voices as the dancers streamed into the hall 
—then the shocked silence. Again he saw 
Joan’s glance of agonised appeal to him- 

His arms fell on the keyboard, his face was 
hidden on them. Was this his punishment? 
With each thought of her would there always 
follow remembrance of his treachery? Would 
the agony grow at each word of hers? at each 
look? every time he touched her, till it became 
intolerable? He could not give her up, yet at 
moments like this the prospect of his marriage 
was terrifying. 

Somebody knocked. He started round vio¬ 
lently. Had any eye been witness of his 
weakness? No, mercifully the door was shut. 
He pulled himself together. A workman stood 
outside waiting for instructions. With the pro¬ 
saic interruption his self-command returned. 
He wandered back to the piano. On it lay a 
sheaf of scores the village organist had asked 
him to try over. He picked out one at random 
and ran through it. The words caught his eye: 
“Watchman, what of the Night?” 

He got up, strolled to the mantelshelf for 



258 


THE SILKEN SCARF 


his pipe, humming the air. The music was 
singularly arresting. He forgot his pipe. 
Taking up the score he studied it for a 
moment, then sat down and played it right 
through. 

“Watchman, what of the Night?” 

Again and yet again comes the appeal. Will 
it always be night, will daybreak never come? 
The music breaks. The heart swells in the 
silence of suspense. Then clear comes the cry 
of victory. 

“The Night will pass!” 

In Dickie’s sweet tenor the notes echoed 
round the room. 

So absorbed had he been in the music that 
he did not hear the door open. There was a 
faint stir. He wheeled. Joan stood framed in 
the doorway. 

She attempted no greeting, neither did he. 
Across the room they gazed at one another. 
In her sad eyes he read that the blackness of 
night still enveloped her. 

Then she was as unhappy as he? In his 
selfishness he had not fully recognised that 
fact. Already she repented the promise she 
had made him. Although he could not give 
her happiness, he might at least release her. 
He was stung to self-contempt; what a cur 
he was- 


“Joan dear, you are miserable; I give you 



THE SILKEN SCARF 


259 


back your promise-” He was by her side, 

the words were trembling on his lips. 

With a pitiful smile she held out her hand. 
He took it- 

At the touch of her slim fingers the moment 
of renunciation passed. Passion rose in his 
heart. After all, the past was past—he could 
not give her up—in a few short weeks she 

would be altogether his- He drew her 

suddenly to him. 

The colour came and went in her face. She 
tried to draw away. His arms but tightened 
their hold. 

ii Joan, you have never kissed me! Will you 
kiss me now?” His voice was hoarse. 

She made a sorry attempt at a joke, she 
hated to hurt him. “Dickie, it is not in the 
bond!” 

“The bond!” He winced. His arms fell 
from her. 

“Dickie, I am so sorry, forgive .me, I should 
not have said that!” Her eyes were full of 
compunction; how could she have been so tact¬ 
less? She hesitated, searching for words; she 
must make him understand. “Dickie, you 
know I can give you no more than affection 
and trust.” 

He managed to keep his eyes still fixed on 
hers, but he marvelled the very walls did not 
cry aloud his baseness. 





260 


THE SILKEN SCARF 


“More than that, Dickie dear, you must not 
ask me, ’ ’ she emphasised gently. 

He stood silent. 

She slipped her arm through his. “Dickie 
—perhaps—I do not know—in time I may for¬ 
get—but you must give me time. ’ ’ She paused. 
Then he felt the closer pressure of her hand. 
“There is nobody whom I trust as I trust 
you.’ ’ 

And the ground did not open to swallow 
him up. 

^ • • • • • • 

Presently they went over the house togetner. 
To please him she feigned an interest in the 
decorations. When she was a little doubtful 
about the dining-room paper, it was with 
difficulty she prevented him from then and 
there giving the order to pull it down. 

* ‘ Dickie, you must not spoil me ! 99 She man¬ 
aged a laugh. 

His eyelids flickered. “I would do any 
mortal thing to please you, ,, he muttered. 

When they said good-bye she raised her face 
to his and kissed him gently on the cheek. 

“Dickie, you are far too good to me.” 

• ••••• 

It was past midnight. Dickie sat in the 
smoking-room, his hands on his knees, his head 
bent. Judy stretched by his side, her ears 
cocked for the faintest sound. Once or twice 


THE SILKEN SCARF 


261 


she lifted her head to gaze at her master with 
bright wondering eyes, then with a whimper 
dropped it again on her extended paws. In the 
stillness Joan’s words echoed in O’Donoghue’s 
ears. 

“ There is nobody else whom I trust as I 
trust you.” 

And he was about to marry her under the 
most shameful pretences. He was a thief, an 
outcast; no decent man knowing what he was 
guilty of would give him the hand of fellow¬ 
ship. There was no hope for him, neither in 
heaven nor earth. . . . His head fell still 
lower. 

• ••••• 

Three miles away Joan too kept vigil. She 
sat at the writing-table in her bedroom. The 
light from the candles in the old Sheffield-plate 
forked candelabra fell on her face, emphasising 
the delicate network of lines that was faintly 
tracing itself at the corners of the eyes. 

One o’clock struck before she had finished 
her task. A pile of paper lay in the grate; on 
the top was a photograph. She lit a match and 
held it to the little heap. Her breath came 
sobbing. A flame sprang up. Piece by piece it 
wormed itself into the paper, now it licked the 
edge of the photograph. She watched, holding 
her lips tightly pressed together. Suddenly 
she thrust out her hand and snatched it from 


262 


THE SILKEN SCARF 


the yellow devastating flame. Anthony’s face 
looked up at her, it was the last link between 
her and him. How could she snap it? She 
held it passionately to her, first against her 
breast, then to her lips. Then with a swift 
movement she flung it into the heart of the 
blaze. 

The fire died out. She put out the lights. 
She was sobbing in the dark. 

Benjamin Carnegie was also wakeful. He 
found the night airless. A mist had arisen 
from the river and forced an entrance into the 
low-lying house. . . . The dining-room was 
depressing; in the fogged light the shabby 
furniture looked doubly shabby. Instead of 
going to bed, he went into the garden. For 
once his optimism had forsaken him. Joan’s 
engagement lay heavy on his conscience. He 
felt that he had pressed her towards it, though 
all unwittingly. To and fro he strolled in the 
silence that was tom eerily by the hooting of 
an owl. 

4 4 In marriage there must be love, there must 
be love,” he murmured. He looked very old 
and tired. 

He went back to the house. With his hand 
on the latch of the door he turned to take a 
last look at the night. While he had been 
walking to and fro, his head was bent, his eyes 


THE SILKEN SCARF 


263 


were riveted on the ground. He had not seen 
that by degrees the mist had faded, showing 
the sky in night’s wonderful blue, pierced silver 
by the stars. He straightened his shoulders 
and drew a deep breath. 

Candlestick in hand he went up the creaking 
stairs. Now his lips were smiling, confidence 
shone once more in his eyes. 


/ 



CHAPTER XXXV 

0’Donoghue sat by the Round Pond in Ken¬ 
sington Gardens one morning about two months 
later. Joan had promised to meet him there at 
half-past twelve. 

She had come to London with Mrs. Craig to 
choose her trousseau. When Kitty made the 
suggestion she fell in with it eagerly. It would 
be a relief to have complete liberty for even 
a fortnight; Dickie’s constant companionship 
irked her. With the passing of each week her 
heart sank with growing apprehension at the 
thought of her coming marriage. The hope 
that he would of his own free will release her 
had forsaken her, and she would not retract her 
given word. Even this short spell of complete 
liberty was denied her, for he followed her to 
London. She and Kitty were returning to¬ 
morrow night to Ireland. Unexpected business 
had turned up and O’Donoghue was to remain 
in town for a few days longer. 

He glanced at his watch; there was a quarter 
of an hour to spare. He bent forward, gazing 
idly into the water. 

A sudden sob arrested him. He turned and 

264 


THE SILKEN SCARF 


265 


saw a small boy at his elbow. He stretched out 
a friendly hand and patted him on the shoulder. 
“Hallo, old chap, what’s the trouble?” 

The reply came in a tempest of tears. 6 i She’s 
gone—I can’t find her!” 

‘ ‘ Who’s gone—nurse ? ’ ’ Dickie stood up. 

“Yes—nanna—she’s gone away!” The sobs 
grew louder. 

“Gone away, has she? Cheer up, we’ll find 
her, ’ ’ said Dickie cheerily. In common human¬ 
ity he could not leave this tiny, disconsolate 
person. He must either find his guardian or 
hand him over to a policeman. If he hurried 
he would be back before Joan came. He smiled 
down at the woebegone face. “Come on, we’ll 
find nanna right enough. ’ ’ 

The sobs ceased. A hand was confidingly 
tucked into Dickie’s. Twenty minutes later 
when the child was restored to his nurse he had 
forgotten that he had ever been frightened. 

O’Donoghue hastened back to the trysting- 
place; he was a few minutes late, but perhaps 

Joan might not be punctual- But no, there 

she was sitting facing the water. Her back was 
to him. He hurried towards her. 

This morning he felt curiously light-hearted. 
Joan had been very kind to him lately. He 
did not know that she was making outward 
amends for the repulsion which filled her at her 
coming marriage. His spirits invariably rose 




266 


THE SILKEN SCARF 


at the smallest encouragement from her; some¬ 
times he was able to live entirely for the 
moment. To-day was one of those occasions. 
It was a lovely morning, the sky clear and blue, 
the air sufficiently sharp-edged to make walk¬ 
ing a sheer delight. From the earth came 
autumn’s pungent smell. It was good to he 
just alive. 

Then all of a sudden the sun went out for 
0 ’Donoghue. 

Crossing the path at right angles to him, a 
few paces away, was Fenwick. His head was 
a little thrust forwards, his eyes were on the 
ground. 

The next minute Dickie found himself 
crouching behind a tree with branches that 
curved to within a few inches of the ground. 
His heart was thumping furiously, his knees 
were shaking. Nemesis had overtaken him. 
Fascinated he watched while Fenwick neared 
Joan. When would she turn and see him? 
Now he was scarcely ten yards from where she 

sat- O’Donoghue shut his eyes, he could 

look no longer. His hand groped for support 
to a branch. It found it, gripped it with such 
force that the bark penetrated through his 
skin. 

In his mind only one thought stood out 
plainly: if Joan and Anthony met now, without 
warning on either side, what would happen? 



THE SILKEN SCARF 


267 


Would Fenwick’s pride yield on the spur of the 
unexpected meeting? Would he tell Joan ex¬ 
actly what had been his share in that episode 
in the church of shadows in Malta? Was 
Dickie’s own treachery about to be exposed? 

With tumult raging in his ears, his temples 
throbbing fiercely, his hands clutching desper¬ 
ately to the tree, he passed through an aeon of 
hell. 

Suspense grew unendurable—it was torture 
to look, but he must know—he opened his 
eyes- 

An odd sound escaped him. It may have 
been a sob of relief. 

Fenwick had passed Joan without seeing her. 

Dickie’s breath was coming in great laboured 
throbs, it had passed beyond his control. He 
gripped the branch still tighter; now drops of 
blood oozed from his hand on to the crisp 
fallen leaves. His eyes were riveted on Joan. 

She was standing. At the sound of retreat¬ 
ing footsteps she had turned her head- 

Then she recognised Anthony. 

From his hiding-place O’Donoghue could see 
her face distinctly. Her lips framed a word. 
He knew it was “Anthony.” But it went un¬ 
said; the slim hand was raised swiftly and 
pressed hard against the lips. Then, as though 
her longing was insupportable, she flung it 
outwards with a gesture of despair towards 




268 


THE SILKEN SCARF 


Fenwick's retreating figure. A woman stroll¬ 
ing by stared inquisitively at her. The look 
recalled Joan to herself, she dropped back on 
her seat. 

The bark pierced still deeper into O'Don- 
oghue's hand, his mouth w T as twitching. He had 
just glimpsed into Joan's soul. Never before 
had he any perception of what that might mean. 
Now he knew that though her body might be 
his, he would never find her soul. 

The pitiful value of possession so maimed 
was being borne in on him in an overwhelming 
flood—a bird clipped of wings—a violin without 
tone—earth robbed of hope of heaven. 

• • s • • • 

There was no longer any question of keeping 
his appointment wuth her. A gulf chasmed 
widely between now and ten minutes past. 
Later he would make some excuse to her. Now 
he had to deal with the future. 

He looked once again at her. She sat bend¬ 
ing slightly forwards, her arms dropped. Her 
whole attitude spoke hopelessness. Then he 
slipped away through the trees. 

Occasionally a nursemaid threw an inquisi¬ 
tive glance at the big man who trod with 
such wariness through the grass; one giggled 
audibly, as she noticed how strangely his eye¬ 
lids flickered. 


THE SILKEN SCARF 


269 


He did not dare to turn his head to the right, 
or to the left, lest he should find himself con¬ 
fronted by Fenwick. 

Now he had left the Gardens and was hurry¬ 
ing down Kensington Gore, perhaps with some 
faint hope that his balance might be restored, 
as so often it had been by the rush of everyday 
life, by contact with people, people probably no 
better than himself, conceivably worse. There 
was comfort in that reflection. 

But this morning the magic would not work. 
The traffic of the road, the taxis, the motor- 
buses, the ambling tradesman’s cart, the jour¬ 
neymen of the pavement, rich and poor, old and 
young, all had resolved themselves into one 
mighty accusation. All flung it at him with a 
voice that must surely be heard. 

Traitor! Thief! 

Suddenly his heart stood still. Was that 
Anthony walking there—just a little way in 
front f Stamped indelibly on his memory was 
every detail of Fenwick’s appearance when he 
had crossed his path ten minutes since. He 
was wearing a grey suit and a soft grey hat. 
So was the man in front. The same height, the 
same alert build. He paused and looked about 
him uncertainly. O’Donoghue also drew up; 
he reeled a little. The man in front wheeled 
round- 



270 


THE SILKEN SCARF 


For a moment the world showed itself a vast 
blur to Dickie. Slowly it cleared. He forced 
himself to look- 

It was not Fenwick. 

The beads of perspiration stood out on his 
forehead. He found that he was supporting 
himself against a railing. 

He hailed a passing taxi—he determined to 
run no further risks—and was driven straight 
to his hotel. From there he sent a note to Joan, 
saying he was not well. 

For the remainder of the day he kept his 
room. Would she come to see him when she 
heard that he was ill! He was sick with long¬ 
ing for the sound of her low voice, for the heal¬ 
ing touch of her soft little hand. And yet at 
every step that came down the corridor his 
heart stood still with fear—how could he face 
her? But when the steps did not pause at his 
door his heart was heavy with disappointment. 

In the evening a note was brought to him. 
She wrote that she was so sorry; he must be 
sure to take every care of himself, and on no 
account must he come out to-morrow if he 
was not quite well. She was quite solicitous, 
sweet- 

His face was twisted, the letter fluttered to 
the floor. It had never occurred to her to come 
herself. 

If it had been Fenwick? 




CHAPTER XXXYI 


It is not the feet of saints, inured to coarse 
sandals, hardened by many penances, that are 
cut by the jagged stones which strew the Road 
leading to Redemption. It is the pampered 
feet of the sinner. And on that Road small 
help can any man render us; each for himself 
must climb the cruel boulders. 

Always the Road runs by our side, though 
we may not see it. Often it needs a shock to 
dispel the mist that shrouds it from our eyes. 

From O’Donoghue the mist fell at the mo¬ 
ment when he glimpsed into Joan’s soul. 
Straight, grim, lonely, dark—a darkness that 
as yet held no ray of light—the path lay before 
him, sodden with the tears of long centuries 
of men and women. He shrank in terror, 
vainly seeking some way of escape. 

The slow night hours dragged by. From 
side to side he tossed while the battle ebbed 
and flowed. 

Sometimes the onslaught swept him off his 
feet. He could not renounce her! He would 
live things down, as many a man had done suc¬ 
cessfully. In all probability Fenwick would 

271 



272 


THE SILKEN SCARF 


never again cross his path. Great was the 
stretch of sea that divided the south of Ireland 
from Malta. Surely in time—only give him 

time—his devotion must win Joan- Then 

he remembered her face as he had seen it this 
morning—the soul he had glimpsed—the soul 
which would never be his. 

He was sick at heart. Life without her would 
be hideous. But what of life spent by her 
side, with a barrier raised between her soul 
and his f 

• ••••• 

Straight before him visioned the Road to 
Redemption. It was in his power to give her 
happiness. 

Could he make the sacrifice? 

He flung up his hand to hide the vision of 
that tortuous road. He could not give her up. 

His pillow was drenched with tears. Oh, 
surely if he and she were man and wife, some¬ 
times—just sometimes, for a few delirious mo¬ 
ments, he could cheat himself into believing 
that by the mystery of the Marriage Service 
she had been given completely—body and soul 
—to him ? 

The mist descended. Now it had swallowed 
up the road of cruel boulders. 

• ••••• 

Dawn looked at him, haggard. 

It was the grey dawn of a huge city, the hour 




THE SILKEN SCARF 273 

when sorrow presses most heavily, when fast 
clamped are the wings of hope. 

Dawn glided to daybreak, inert and sullen. 

Dickie could bear inaction no longer. He 
rose, dressed and went out. 

London was still asleep. On the deserted 
pavements his footsteps echoed noisily. The 
Strand, winding between shuttered windows, 
was dully unfamiliar. Loneliness, such as he 
had never experienced, clutched at his heart. 
He could not hear it. He hurried away from 
the blind houses and came to Trafalgar Square. 

But here it was infinitely more lonely. 
Greatness breathes from the summit of that 
vast colonnade, its message rings clear before 
the arrival of the day with all its distractions. 
Always there is something of loneliness in the 
contemplation of the heights. 

On Dickie hurried. Now his steps rang out 
in the silent Haymarket. Now he was racing 
up Piccadilly. 

Servants scarcely yet awake made a slow 
appearance on door-steps. Sleepers in the 
Green Park greeted the new day with yawning 
mouths. One of them was lounging by the 
railings. O’Donoghue looked at him, then 
quickly glanced away. The dull eyes, the 
slouching figure, told their tale of life having 
been tried and found not worth the living. 

Thought tortured him as he sped on. If he 


274 


THE SILKEN SCARF 


renounced Joan, would the long unfolding years 
ever again hold any purpose for him! 

Instead of the broad opulent thoroughfare 
a dark road, a road strewn with boulders, 
unwound itself. 

“My God! My God!” 

It was the nearest approach to prayer he had 
ever made. 

He reached his destination. It was on the 
pavement just below Joan’s window. Some of 
the magic of her presence would fall on him 
here! His pulses quickened. In a few weeks 
she would be his. Always he would live within 
sound of her low voice, within sight of that 
adorable crooked twisting of her lips. It would 
be his right to hold her—close- 

Suddenly Joan’s soul—the soul which he 
knew would never be his—was looking straight 
at him. 

• ••••• 

He was speeding back down Piccadilly. On 
either side a spectre kept pace with him. The 
one was a man whose eyes blazed with scorn, 
the other the soul of a woman. And the soul 
was crying out for pity. 

Faster and faster he hastened on. 

It was Sunday. The bells were ringing for 
morning service. The streets were astir with 
people dressed consciously in their best. 



THE SILKEN SCARF 


275 


Still Dickie hurried on—down the Strand, 
Fleet Street, past the Bank—still he pressed 
onwards. At last from sheer exhaustion he 
paused. He glanced round him. He was in 
a street shadowed by tall dingy houses. It 
was deserted. Not even a milkman made his 
rounds. 

In the stillness the spectres pressed closer. 
The man’s scorn was cutting like a knife, the 
cry of the woman’s soul pierced. Surely that 
cry must penetrate into one or other of those 
endless grey houses; surely presently doors 
would open, tousled heads would peer out 
surreptitiously, curious to see who called? 

He wiped his face. He must get back to the 
main thoroughfare, to the comfort of human 
contact, he could not endure this awful solitude. 
He took the next turning, the next, and again 
the next. But each led only into a street drab 
as the last. He had completely lost his bear¬ 
ings. He was in a backwater, insignificant on 
a week-day, dreary to heartbreak in its Sunday 
emptiness. 

Closer pressed the spectres. He and they 
were the only sentient things in this inhos¬ 
pitable region of barred doors and windows. 
He groaned in the anguish of his spirit. 

He turned into another street. Perhaps here 
he might find somebody of whom he could ask 


276 


THE SILKEN SCARF 


the way? He must get back to the world of 
movement. Perhaps its noise might still the 
whispering of those voices by his side? 

Of a sudden he paused and glanced round. 
The notes of an organ stole out into the air. 
He had just passed a church without seeing it. 
It was an unpretentious building of red brick, 
with a spire not worthy the name. As a piece 
of architecture it did not merit a second glance. 
But the music broke the grey hush. Dickie 
listened, it was familiar. He stole a little 
nearer to the open door. 

“Watchman, what of the Night?” 

The bass voice throbbed in its anguish. 

Dickie’s heart-strings tightened. He had last 
heard those words at FelPs Court. He remem¬ 
bered how his eyes had held Joan’s across the 
room. 

The voice in the church dropped in silence, 
the organ took up the theme. One pictured a 
storm gathering on the horizon and hurling 
itself forwards to a sea already heavy with 
forebodings. It travelled in a mighty onrush 
—the organ pealed with crashing chords—it 
lashed the waves to foam; now they were 
driven to break furiously upon the rocks. The 
storm was at its height. 

Blending with it, now lost in the tempest of 
sound, anon rising high in a cry of despair, 
came the voice of the singer: 


THE SILKEN SCARF 


277 


“ Watchman, what of the Night ?” 

It called to Dickie, it entreated him. Was 
it the cry of his own soul? The despair found 
an echo in his heart. He slipped inside the 
door. 

1 ‘ Watchman, what of the Night ?” 

Again the glorious voice rang through the 
church—the creation-old cry of the travailing 
world: i i Watchman, what of the Night ?’’ The 
notes died to silence. Would day never 
break? The hearts of the people throbbed 
in the hush. The soul of each was beating 
against the gates of heaven. 

Dickie sat tense, his hands tightly gripped. 
For him there was no daybreak: whichever 
way he turned, darkness must always shadow 
him. In spirit he was back in the music-room. 
Again he and Joan confronted each other. 
“The Night will pass!” he had sung. But 
when his eyes found hers she had dumbly given 
denial. 

“Watchman, what of the Night?” 

Organ and voice strove together. And now 
the appeal had journeyed far beyond the con¬ 
fines of the church. It seemed as though the 
whole world travailing in sorrow had joined 
in that agonising cry for light at heaven’s gate. 

Ever louder pealed the organ: life’s battle 
was very fierce. And ever above the tumult 
rose the anguished cry. Louder—still louder 


278 


THE SILKEN SCARF 


—the gate of heaven could resist no more, it 
was swept asunder. The cry went up and up. 
It flooded the Courts of Radiance, caught 
with it the prayers of the saints, soared up and 
ever up till it reached the highest Heaven 
of all. 

It ceased. In silence the sorrow-laden world 
waited. 

“What of the Night!” 

O’Donoghue’s lips were quivering; he had 
to grip his hands to stay their trembling. 

The answer came. The organ was stilled, the 
storm had spent itself, the sea lay exhausted. 
Clear, confident, comforting as the blast of a 
trumpet, was a boy’s sweet treble voice: 

“The Night will pass!” 

Dickie was down on his knees, his face 
crushed between his hands. The struggle was 
over; the spectres no longer pressed close upon 
him. This time there would be no going back. 
For Joan the day would break; he would give 
her happiness. 

And what of himself! He lifted his anguish- 
tom face. The gold of the altar lights wavered 
uncertainly. They lit the entrance to a long 

dark road- For him was there to be no 

daybreak! He bowed his head. 

As the solemn service proceeded, the voices 
of the choir rose and fell, and always the music 
held the cry of appeal. Mercy—help- 




THE SILKEN SCARF 


279 


Dickie’s tortured face was hidden, God knows 
he needed both. He longed to pray, hut he 
did not know how, he had no words. Perhaps 
the longing was accepted; it may be with even 
more compassion than the prayers of those 
kneeling round him. 

“How am I to live without her? God, how 
am I to live without her?” Over and over 
again he asked. In the darkness there was no 
reply. 

The motif of the music changed. The tri¬ 
umphant strains of the “Gloria” filled the 
church, from aisle to aisle, from floor to rafter. 
On their feet the people cried aloud “Victory.” 

But Dickie knelt on with bowed head. In 
his heart was no thankfulness for victory. 
He had made the first step on the road to 
Redemption, and already his feet were bleed¬ 
ing. It was very dark, he could see no 
light. 

Yet again the music changed. The organ 
softened to a wail. Victory that it might 
endure pleaded for help. 

11 Have mercy on us! ” 

A man’s broad shoulders were shaking. 

“Receive our prayer!” 

Closer and closer his hands pressed against 
his tear-stained face. 

The music stopped. Through the rapt still¬ 
ness came the petition for peace, the petition 


280 THE SILKEN SCARF 

that wells from the depth of every human 
heart. 

Peace for such as he! The mockery of it! 
He strangled a sob. 

The service was ended. For a moment there 
was movement, footsteps slipped reverently 
down the aisles. Then stillness again. 

Furtively he raised his head. A few people 
were still on their knees. The altar lights were 
being extinguished. For him the whole world 
was shrouded in darkness. He stumbled out 
into the open air. 

When he reached his hotel he sat down and 
wrote to Joan. 


EPILOGUE 




FIFTEEN MONTHS LATER 

One hot June morning Miss Hilliard on her way 
to the village passed Mr. Carnegie’s garden. 
She glanced over the fence and saw him, scis¬ 
sors and basket in hand, go from tree to tree 
making a careful selection of roses. Her curi¬ 
osity was roused. Benjamin’s beloved roses 
were picked only on special occasions. Pushing 
open the little wooden gate she marched up the 
path. 

“Who’s the honoured guest, Benjamin?” she 
demanded. “Last week it was Joan; who is 
it to-day?” 

He straightened his back and turned to greet 
her. “I am expecting O’Donoghue, Augusta,” 
he said quietly. 

“O’Donoghue!” Miss Hilliard ejaculated. 
“O’Donoghue!” she repeated. Then she 
plumped herself down on the garden seat. 
She was going to talk this matter out. Charity 
was all very well, and Benjamin’s charity was 
notorious, but there was a limit. Her face 
tightened. “Sit down, Benjamin!” she com¬ 
manded. 


281 


282 


THE SILKEN SCARF 


He sat down obediently, but the light of 
battle sprang to his eyes. She lowered her sun¬ 
shade and gripping it fiercely by the handle 
proceeded to emphasise each word with a tap 
of the ferrule on the path. “Do you mean to 
tell me in all seriousness that you are killing 
the fatted calf, so to speak”—she pointed to 
the cherished blooms in the flat osier basket— 
“for O’Donoglme! A man who by his own 
showing is a cheat and a liar—who should be 
hounded from any decent society!” Her face 
crimsoned. “And you intend to receive him 
in your house—to welcome him!—oh, my dear 
Benjamin!” She raised her hands in despair. 

“When the prodigal son comes home, is he 
not worthy of the best?” he asked. 

‘ ‘ I never could see that !’ 9 She snapped her 
thin lips together. 

“The greater the sin the greater must be the 
repentance,” he reminded. “Should repent¬ 
ance go unrecognised?” 

She shrugged her shoulders scornfully. 

For a little he considered her in silence then 
he touched her arm. “Augusta, Dickie sinned 
grievously, but he has repented. Surely you 
must see that he is more likely now to find his 
heaven than if he had spent the remainder 
of his life in his old easy-going rut?” His 
faded eyes shone, he spoke with the childlike 



THE SILKEN SCARF 283 

transparency of thought that ever removed any 
imputation of preaching from him. 

“Neither do I see that!” she burst out, 
“And I utterly fail to associate Richard 
O’Donoghue with any idea of heaven. And 
certainly I don’t anticipate when I get there 
to find myself in company with cheats and 
liars! ’’ 

“Evidently you anticipate heaven a polite 
boudoir, Augusta,” he returned with mild sar¬ 
casm. “Don’t you think the Almighty is more 
likely to give us a living-room!” 

A living-room! Miss Hilliard said tren¬ 
chantly that she considered it a most undig¬ 
nified conception of the next world. 

Benjamin smiled. “You want a palace of 
gold and precious stones, Augusta. It would 
suffocate me; I couldn’t breathe in such mag¬ 
nificence. ’ ’ 

“For goodness sake, talk sense, Benjamin,” 
she said brusquely, “and keep to the point, 
When do you expect O’Donoghue!” 

He glanced at his watch. “Any moment 
now. He wired me yesterday from Holyhead 
that he was crossing by the night mail and 
would come on here by the 7.30.” 

She rose hastily. 

“Augusta, won’t you wait and see him!” 
he urged. 

“Wait and see him! Talk to him!” Miss 


284 


THE SILKEN SCARF 


Hilliard exploded. “I must say I wonder after 
all that has happened how he has the audacity 
to come to Butlerstown. And it’s quite likely 
he will run up against Joan. That would be 
a pretty meeting, wouldn ’t it ? ’’ 

“I intend that he ‘shall run up against 
Joan/ 99 he said placidly. “In fact I have 
asked Joan here this morning.” 

“Then I consider you have acted unpardon- 
ably.” Miss Hilliard was furious, “How did 
you persuade her?” 

“I didn’t tell her that Dickie is to be here,” 
Benjamin returned equably. He rose stiffly 
and busied himself again among the rose¬ 
bushes. 

Unobserved by him, Miss Augusta panto¬ 
mimed her intense disapproval. “Your con¬ 
duct is even more unpardonable than I had 
imagined. And Joan won’t thank you.” 

Benjamin shook his head. “I know Joan 
better; she won’t be so unforgiving. How 
could she be, now that she is so extraordinarily 
happy?” He smiled suddenly. “I don’t be¬ 
lieve any two people w T ere ever happier than 
she and Anthony. There is not a shadow 
between them. And now with her baby com¬ 
ing—no, Augusta, you are wrong, you will find 
that Joan will forgive.” 

“Humph!” She shrugged her angular 
shoulders. “7 don’t think she will. Why, 



THE SILKEN SCARF 285 

when by any chance O’Donoghue’s name is 
mentioned she absolutely freezes—I have 
noticed it heaps of times. She can’t forgive 
his abominable conduct. Why should she? 
Benjamin, I consider that you are behaving 
abominably too. Good-bye, I want to get 
away before your friend O’Donoghue comes.” 
She couldn’t resist the little thrust and she 
smiled grimly as she went to the gate. She 
was too late. She had been listening for 
wheels to announce Dickie’s coming, but he had 
dismissed the car half-way from the station 
and walked the remainder of the distance. As 
she passed out through the gate, he was just 
about to enter. Drawing aside he raised his 
hat gravely. Then he drew in his breath 
sharply. She had flung up her head and 
stared straight through him, and then bristling 
with indignation marched down the road. He 
knew that Miss Hilliard’s attitude was the one 
adopted towards him by everybody at Butlers- 
town. They had wiped him from their lives. 
It hurt. 

But there was one person to welcome him. 
His face flushed, his eyes shining, Benjamin 
came hurrying across the lawn with extended 
hands. “Dickie, my dear boy!” 

O’Donoghue swallowed hard as he gripped 
the wrinkled hands. “You—you don’t disown 
me, sir?” 


286 


THE SILKEN SCARF 


“I shall never disown you, Dickie,’’ Ben¬ 
jamin said simply. “I have missed you, missed 

you badly. In the future-” He left his 

sentence unended. He was afraid to trust his 
voice. 

‘‘Is everything arranged?” he asked pres¬ 
ently. They were sitting on the wooden bench. 

“Everything.” O’Donoghue was looking 
across the lawn to the old house with its tiny 
window-panes, its quaint chimneys, and from 
there to the river running at the foot of the 
garden. Subconsciously he was gathering im¬ 
pressions. Often in the coming days it was 
to happen that with eyes blinded by the glare 
of a sun changing to copper the deep blue of a 
tropical sea, with his skin burnt to parchment, 
and his throat dry and parched, he was to 
recall with intolerable longing this glad June 
morning and Benjamin’s garden, radiant-col¬ 
oured, fragrant-scented, its stillness broken 
only by the whirring of insects, the sudden 
chattering of a blackbird. A rider, accom¬ 
panied by a couple of dogs with red lolling 
tongues jogged past the gate. Dickie watched. 
In the past, horses and dogs had filled a large 
part of his life. They had no share in the new 
one which beckoned him gauntly. It was a 
summons steeped in horror. He shrank before 
it, but he would not refuse. For him redemp¬ 
tion lay by a steep path. He had come this 



THE SILKEN SCARF 287 

morning to bid Benjamin good-bye; to sever 
the last link that bound him to the old life. 

“When do you sail?” The lines on Ben¬ 
jamin’s face showed deeply furrowed. This 
good-bye was very bitter to him, but he would 
not have had it otherwise. 

“In three days.” O’Donoghue spoke ab¬ 
ruptly. 

“And the house?” 

“Sold.” Fell’s Court would not know him 
again. He found it difficult to steady his voice. 
* 6 I think everything is fixed up. ’ ’ He looked at 
his watch, counting the moments till the return 
of the car to take him back to the station. He 
was terribly afraid of breaking down. In all 
probability he would not meet Benjamin again. 
His heart contracted. But there was something 
more that must be said. 

“Before I go, sir—before I go-” He 

paused. 

“Yes, Dickie?” Mr. Carnegie was looking 
carefully in front of him. He had caught one 
glimpse of O’Donoghue’s stricken face, he did 
not wish to catch another. 

“Before I go, I want to ask you to give— 
Joan a message-” 

“Yes,” Benjamin said again. 

“To—to ask her if ever she can find it in her 
heart to—to forgive—if she will write—if she 
will send even one—one word through you it 






288 


THE SILKEN SCARF 


will—it will-” He sprang up and walked 

to the river wall and stood there. His 
shoulders shook. Benjamin watched him piti¬ 
fully. 

“I promise. If ever she sends a message you 
shall have it immediately.” 

“But she won’t send one. Why should 
she?” Dickie wheeled and looked at the old 
man miserably. “What right have I to expect 
that she will forgive?” 

“By Divine right,” Benjamin said solemnly. 
He sighed. “It is a kinder judgment than 
man’s.” 

Dickie shook his head. “She will never for¬ 
give,” he repeated. 

The gate clicked. There was a light step on 
the path, a buoyant step speaking of hope and 
happiness and youth. Benjamin glanced, then 
spoke hastily. “Joan is here, Ask her your¬ 
self.” 

4 ‘ Joan—here! ’ ’ The blood rushed to 0 ’Don- 
oghue’s face, flooded brow, neck and ears, then 
died away. His heart beat painfully. 

“Well, Mr. Carnegie, why did you send for 
me? And why wasn’t Anthony to come? 
Have you a surprise for me?” He listened to 
her gay greeting at the farther side of the 
lawn. What a lilt her voice held, what happi¬ 
ness. A bush hid him from view. She had not 
seen him yet. 



THE SILKEN SCARF 


289 


‘ ‘ Joan, there is someone here who wishes 
to speak to you,” he heard Benjamin say. The 
old voice trembled. 

4 ‘Someone to see me? Who is it?” she asked 
gaily. “Why, Mr. Carnegie, you look quite 
upset.” Her voice changed suddenly, lost its 
lilt. She had guessed. “Who is it?” she 
repeated slowly. 

There was silence, and Dickie knew that 
Benjamin had drawn her forwards and that she 
recognised him. 

He waited while Benjamin’s steps retreated, 
then he heard the faint swish of grass. Joan 
was approaching, but how slowly, how reluc¬ 
tantly. The buoyancy and joyousness had gone 
from her tread. But he listened hungrily. 
That light movement across the lawn was being 
shrined in his memory, to hang alongside the 
picture of Benjamin’s garden. 

“You wanted to see me? What have you to 
say?” She spoke quietly, as though he had 
been the merest stranger. 

The fingers of his gripped hand opened and 
shut spasmodically. This coldness of hers was 
terrifying. Infinitely easier to bear would be 
anger, reproaches. She was so remote that he 
felt nothing he could do or say would affect 
her any more. He stood stricken. Empty of 
hope, of happiness, of everything except his 
burden of remorse, he was going out alone into 


290 


THE SILKEN SCARF 


the “desert places.’’ At last he found courage 

to raise his head. “I—I-” he faltered and 

stopped. Then words came in a rush. “My 
God, Joan, what can I say to you?” 

“Yes, what can you say?” she repeated 
slowly. 

The long silence was broken only by the 
droning of a bee and the sharp splash of a 
trout in the river. 

Joan’s eyes wandered over the tall, loosely- 
knit figure in the tweed travelling suit, the hat 
pulled low over his eyes, the averted face, 
and suddenly her coldness was broken by a 
tempest of anger. What indescribable misery 
O’Donoghue had brought her! Of how many 
days, months, years of happiness had he not 
filched her? Well! She drew a deep breath 
and made a gesture as though sweeping the 
past from her remembrance. She would forget 
it. She looked again at Dickie’s averted face 
and then turned away. There was nothing 
more to be said. Why prolong the interview ? 

So she was going? Going without even say¬ 
ing good-bye ? He couldn’t bear that. ‘ ‘ Joan! ’ ’ 
he whispered. 

She looked round. Then she recoiled before 
the anguish in his eyes, the lines newly graven 
on his face. A patch of hair showed under the 
low-drawn hat. It was flecked with grey. 

She hesitated. Her eyes misted unexpect- 



THE SILKEN SCARF 


291 


edly. Remembrance surged unwillingly upon 
her—remembrance of a thousand kindnesses 
he had shown her; of the ways in him which 
she had loved, his cheeriness and light-heart¬ 
edness, his sweet temper. Oh, he had stood for 
much to her in the long ago; his figure loomed 
large in the background of her life. And now 
he was going away stricken, broken, beaten, 
without a word of farewell from her. Could 
she let him? Her mouth softened. At least, 
she would say good-bye. She drew a step 
nearer. And as she did so another stream of 
thought engulfed her. He had not only hurt 
her —that she might have forgiven—but it was 
Anthony. How infamously he had behaved to 
him—infamously. No, she couldn’t forgive. 
The tide encircled her more generous impulse 
—drew it in a maelstrom and bore it down the 
rushing flood. She turned away. Her face was 
hard. 

As she went past the house Benjamin beck¬ 
oned her anxiously into the porch. “Well?” 
he asked, scanning her face eagerly. “Joan, 
you have given him some word of comfort?” 

She shook her head. “I couldn’t, dear Mr. 
Carnegie, I couldn’t.” 

“Why not?” he asked sternly. 

“I am only human,” she flashed back. “He 
robbed me, and he robbed Anthony. How can 
I forgive?” 


292 


THE SILKEN SCARF 


On the path came the sound of steps. They 
dragged hopelessly. O’Donoghue was going 
to the gate. Mr. Carnegie watched him with a 
breaking heart. Dickie had forgotten that he 
had not yet bidden him good-bye; he was 
oblivious of all save that he had made his 
appeal to Joan and it had failed. Mr. Carnegie 
glanced hastily at the clock in the hall. In ten 
minutes the car was due to arrive. After that 
it would be too late. 

“Joan, you know Dickie is going away?” he 
spoke quickly. 

“Yes, he wrote and told me.” Her voice 
was indifferent. 

“He didn’t tell you where?” 

“No.” She shook her head. 

Mr. Carnegie cleared his throat. “He will 
not come back to Butlerstown, nor to England. 
That chapter of his life is closed. The 

next-” He broke off and turning from her 

stood with hands gripped behind his back 
staring at the horizon. His eyes seemed to 
pierce the blue distance. 

But time pressed. He roused himself and 
turning again to Joan regarded her wistfully. 
“Joan, don’t you want to know anything about 
his future?” 

She shrugged her shoulders. “Why should 
I want to know? I have tried to wipe all 
remembrance of him from my life.” 




THE SILKEN SCARF 


293 


“Have you succeeded?” 

She hesitated. “Yes—almost.” 

He caught eagerly at the word. “I want to 
tell you where he is going. You will listen 
to me?” 

Stung at the pain in his voice she moved 
closer to him. “Of course I’ll listen. But 
only because it’s you, dear Mr. Carnegie!” 

He shook his head. “Not because I ask you, 
Joan, but because mercy is crying to you.” 
Again her face hardened, but he pretended not 
to see. “Dickie is going into exile to seek 
redemption, into the ‘desert places of the earth ’ 

to find his soul. He is going to—to-” He 

stumbled over the words, his face contracted 
with pain. He began afresh. “Joan, in the 
Pacific there are islands—gaunt, stricken places 
in dire need of help—of money, of labour, of 
infinite courage and endurance. It is to these 
islands that Dickie is going. He has been train¬ 
ing in London for the work, also his reading 
with me in the old days has been a help.” 
Benjamin choked. There would be no more 
winter evenings spent contentedly with O’Don- 
oghue poring over books and notes. “He sails 
on Saturday. Joan, in all likelihood he will not 
return . 9 9 The knowledge nearly broke his heart. 
Surely Joan must soften? He looked at her 
imploring silently. But her answer chilled him. 

“I think he is wise to go.” Again she had 



294 


THE SILKEN SCARF 


assumed this remote air, so baffling in its 
unfamiliarity. 

He had failed! Benjamin drew in his breath. 

Along the road in the distance was heard the 
first faint sound of approaching wheels. He 
listened with quivering nerves. The moments 
were racing by. “Joan,” he put a trembling 
arm round her shoulders, “listen, dear. You . 
and Dickie have always been the children of 

my heart. Now Dickie is going from me-” 

His voice broke and trailed away. How 
devastating was the future for him. 

“Don’t, oh, please don’t!” she begged. 
Tears suddenly filled her eyes, she could not 
bear to hear him sob. 

He mastered himself. This was not the time 
to give way, there would be time later, .much 
time. “Dear, I do not regret his going. He 
must find redemption. Great was his sin, so 
great must be his atonement. That is but 
justice. But be merciful, my child, give him 
one word of comfort to take with him. Think 
what his life is going to be! A ceaseless 
struggle; often a struggle without hope to 
lighten the burden. Joan, think of the lone¬ 
liness!” 

‘ i I am thinking! ’ ’ 

So he had moved her? A Ettle exultation 
lit his eyes, but only to be swept away the next 
minute. “I can’t—I just ccm’t forgive.” 



THE SILKEN SCARF 


295 


The car had reached the bend in the road a 
quarter of a mile away. One heard plainly 
now the rhythm of the horse’s hoofs, the jingle 
of the bell. The time was very short. "Was 
he to fail after all? Was Augusta Hilliard 
right? Would she not forgive? His lips 
moved silently. What could he say to soften 
her? 

66 Joan, I beseech you! Remember his lone¬ 
liness. Try, oh, try to realise it! Cut off from 
everybody for whom he has ever cared, from 
the home which he loved. Joan! Joan! my 
child, you must realise! What can I say to 
you?” In despair he wrung his hands. The 
approaching car slowed as it came down the 
road. It had nearly reached the gate. ‘ 4 Joan, 
think of your own happiness. You have been 
given everything.” 

Her happiness? Suddenly her hardness 
broke and was engulfed in a flood of pity. 
Mr. Carnegie was right; she had been given 
everything—Anthony, love, understanding, her 
coming motherhood. And bereft of all, Dickie 
was going out into the “desert places.” 

She looked across the lawn to where he stood 
by the gate waiting for the car to pull up. 
His shoulders were bent, he looked old and 
tired. A lump rose in her throat. She held out 
her hand to Benjamin, “Come,” she said, 
“come quickly!” 


296 


THE SILKEN SCARF 


Not until they reached him did O’Donoghue 
hear their steps, then he wheeled sharply and 
looked hungrily at Joan. 

“Dickie!” she said softly. 

Instantly his face transfigured! “Joan,” he 
said hoarsely, “is it possible? You—you for¬ 
give ? ” 

“Yes, Dickie, I forgive.” 

• _• • • • • 

The car raced down the road—disappeared 
in a cloud of dust. 

Benjamin slipped his hand through Joan’s 
arm and led her back into the sunlit garden. 
The tears were running down her cheeks. 

“Don’t, dear,” he said gently. “It is well 
with Dickie.” 

He dropped heavily upon the seat. He was 
very tired, but his voice was triumphant. 

“You have broken the dark. For him, dawn 
will follow the night.” 































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